


Pie in the sky

by smleeish



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Androids - Amazo (DCU), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batfamily Feels, Blood and Gore - mentioned, Bodyswap, Clones?, Everything is Just a Bad Dream, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Mystery, Past Relationship(s), Plot Twists, Suspense, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 64,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smleeish/pseuds/smleeish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts when Jason wakes up in his bed in Wayne Manor, a kid again, and struggles with the thought that everything about him—his life and death, and life again—was nothing but one horribly long, very bad dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleep Well, Bad Dreams

Jason startles awake and for a long moment his mind draws blank.

He waits for the aching pounding of his heart to calm from whatever horrors he had dreamt about, but the familiar surroundings—his bed, his desk, his shelf of trinkets and books, because they were all his, right?—don't seem to have any effect on him. In fact, the sight somehow makes him feel even more sick, wrong, and Jason sits up weakly in his bed trying to catch his breath as if he had just run ten laps around the manor. He glances around the dark room wondering when he had cleaned his clothes off the floor, and isn't that the stupidest thing to think about given he feels like shit and shitshitshit I'm having a fucking heart attack. His whole body seems to contract in on itself and all he can do is sit stiffly, hunched over the nauseatingly fresh bedsheets and fearfully wait for his stomach to upturn itself.

At some point, the bedroom door swings open silently, spilling a crack of light across the floor. Jason's pulse was pounding in his head and he doesn't even acknowledge as a silhouette slips in. After a pause, the shadow seems to notice Jason's predicament with a remarked, "Oh dear..."

Cautiously moving to his side (the word _carefully_ didn't seem right, as with everything else in that moment), the figure leans towards him but keeps a distance, making sure not to crowd his space.

"Master Jason," Alfred started. Jason noticed how the old butler's watery eyes were surrounded by more worried wrinkles than normal. "No matter what terrors you see, no matter what shadows you fear, I promise that you are safe."

Jason could almost believe that, so he let the earnestness in the older man's voice comfort him a little. He says nothing though, not trusting his voice to stay under his control through his suffocating gasps for air because there just isn't enough of it in the too small room and Jason can't fucking breathe. The elderly man took a handkerchief and gently dabbed the sweat from his forehead before it dripped into his eyes.

His ears felt bloated, hearing echoes of nothing as if his head was submerged in water, and Alfred's voice echoes to him distantly when he continues, "If you would follow my lead, Master Jason—take a slow breath and hold for a pause before exhaling, long and slow on my count. Understood, sir?" Jason nodded his head weakly in response. "Very good, now breathe in—"

Jason took in a sharp, stuttering breath, too quickly.

"Hold—"

The muscles in his throat tightened compulsively, but he was already letting go like an untied balloon before Alfred commanded, "Exhale... 5... 4... 3..."

And Jason was back to hyperventilating again, looking wearily at the butler as if to say, _I'm a lost cause_.

"No need to be disheartened, sir. We shall try again, as many times as is necessary. You will be all right." Alfred gave him a worried, but reassuring squeeze of his shoulder.

Half an hour later, Jason was finally breathing on his own with some semblance of control, his wracked body feeling like a well-beaten sandbag and his head throbbing. His muscles had uncoiled themselves and the pulsing in his ears had stopped. Alfred poured a glass of water from the pitcher next to the bed and handed it to him along with a sleeping pill.

"Thanks, Al," Jason croaked, grateful for for the offer of mind-numbing sleep as he took the glass and pill with small hands. He swallowed the drug and downed the water in nearly a single gulp, feeling the cool liquid relieve his parched throat.

"You are very welcome, sir. Now, I believe it is due time you retired for the night."

Jason didn't protest when the butler took his empty glass and tucked the blankets comfortably around him as he lay back down. Satisfied that Jason was settled in, Alfred straightened his posture to take his leave.

As Alfred turned around, Jason had a sudden, irrational fear of being left alone in his familiar room with his familiar things that didn't seem to comfort him at all. He hesitated before quickly muttering under his breath, "Will you wake me up if I have bad dreams again?"

Alfred froze, eyes widening slightly in surprise.

Jason squirms nervously under the butler's appalled gaze and he almost wants to ask, _what's wrong?_ before he regretted the question from ever leaving his mouth. He still felt uncomfortable about sharing his demons openly, as if speaking of the blood, the pain, and _death_ would make them real. Even if his most recent nightmare had been one of the worst he's ever had, Jason wasn't a snot-nosed baby that needed to be coddled. Yet, as much as Jason learned to rely on himself since he was practically in diapers, a small part of him acknowledged the kind butler's attentive care and consideration while intuitively respecting his privacy, never lecturing him or raising a hand at Jason's unhealthy habits, such as stashing junk food in his closet, or going to bed with the same clothes he'd worn during the day—even Jason's smoking habit, although he was currently trying to quit cold turkey for the other's sake. It meant a lot to Jason that Alfred was patient with him (because Jason wholly and sincerely wanted to change), and knew deep down that he could grow to trust the elderly man as a friend—someday. Jason figured all he needed was to give the butler a chance.

So when the man regarded Jason's brief moment of vulnerability in surprise, Jason felt relieved that the glistening at the corners of his aging eyes wasn't a trick of the light, and neither were they filled with pity.

Alfred regarded his young charge fondly, one hand patting his arm underneath the covers and another giving a gentle caress through his hair, an uncharacteristic break in his usual distant politeness.

"... Always, Master Jason. Always." he finally says quietly.

At the door, he turned around once again as if to make sure Jason was still safely where he should be and gave one last smile.

"Sleep well, Master Jason."

Jason closed his eyes and felt himself drifting into unconsciousness. He slept like the dead until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is the fate of most ideas that unfortunately pop out of my head, I made the mistake of putting this one down on paper, then all of sudden—boop! I have an outline and multiple chapters of an epically ambitious storyline with more plot and more feels than I can ever hope to do justice for. Oh joy.
> 
> FYI this story exists in some non-existent timeline that has nothing to do with canon and was written just for the hell of it. Just a warning, if there are any references to canon events and/or characters, they may be completely out of context since I know nothing about the DCU outside of cartoons, movies, fanworks and google (oh the things my creative license does for drama and plot...).
> 
> Tags will be updated as the story progresses, but there's no guarantee I'll be able to finish this monster I have floating around in my head =_=
> 
> Hope you enjoy the story anyways!


	2. Words Unspoken

In the morning, Alfred finds Jason already out of bed, washed and changed out of his pajamas.

The boy had found his clothes neatly folded in the dresser, courtesy of the resident butler, and so he decided to take a quick shower to wash away the tension from last night before getting changed. When Jason pulled on his favorite hooded sweater (a gift from his first Christmas at the manor), he noted how it fit loosely on his shoulders, like a well-worn garment that had seen one too many laundry baskets. It worried him a little, but favorite clothes always tend to darn out faster than others, just like the old set of clothes he used to wear while living in Park Row—except on the streets you didn't have the luxury of making favorites and the clothes on your back were all you had, whether you liked them or not. 

Although Alfred had prepared to serve Jason breakfast in bed, Jason insisted on eating downstairs. Having already eaten his breakfast by sunrise, the butler stood at attention by Jason's side while the boy dug hungrily into his plate. Table manners were obviously not his forte and Jason was maybe a little apologetic for that fact towards the butler as he shoveled eggs and sausages into his gaping mouth. Alfred, however, strangely had no comments for his messy eating habits this morning and Jason figured it was his stoic way of showing he cared after his ordeal last night, letting him get away with a familiar habit.

The thing about poverty and food is that you never know when your next hot meal will be, so Jason had seen the habit countless times, learned it himself, how to scarf down as much as necessary, as quickly as possible, since there were other equally important things you could be doing at that moment— like stealing wheels off a car, so you can earn some cash, so you can pay for that next, hot meal. Jason was still getting used to the whole idea of  _not_  having to stash things away, of having a fridge the size of a walk-in closet plus a fully-stocked cellar and pantry.

After having his plate refilled for a second helping and letting his mind wander contently, he somehow couldn't ignore the massive chair at the head of the table any longer. It loomed expectantly at him, the figurative elephant in the room you couldn't miss. And it was so very  _empty_. 

"Hey Alfred, where's... Bruce?"

There was a subtle hesitation, then the older man answered, "... Master Bruce is preoccupied with important matters at the moment. But rest assured, he intends to see you as soon as he is released from his duties."

And  _that_  was a textbook answer as far as Jason could tell. Jason had figured out early on that there were few things in the world that could ruffle the old butler's feathers (when your master dresses up as a giant bat and flies over rooftops at night fighting crime, there wasn't much else in the world that could take you by surprise), but Jason didn't miss the unnecessary pause and the slight wrinkle that formed between his graying eyebrows. Jason was good at reading people like that. 

"When's he coming back?" he asked.

"Perhaps within the next week or so."

"What's he working on?"

"The usual. Contracts, meetings, site supervision…"

"So, you're telling me he's not working on a  _case_?"

The butler paused again. That makes twice now, thought Jason. Not like he had any scores to settle with the butler, but you never know when you're a pint-sized brat trying to live in a world of adults, and by now it had become another bad habit, if anything. Keeping track of your wins and losses (one point for the successful shoplift, minus one for the loss of your hidden cache that was looted by another thief) eventually becomes a measuring stick for survival. Obviously, survival had long since been taken out of the equation for Jason ever since he was adopted by multi-billionaire Bruce Wayne, but as the old saying goes,  _old habits die hard_. And either way, it was plain as day that the butler had something to hide when the other man clammed up momentarily at the mention of Bruce. 

"... You are interested in partaking in some of your own detective work, I assume?" Alfred inquired composedly and raised an eyebrow in his direction, catching on to Jason's obvious sleuthing.

"Oh, you know me, Alfie, always eager to please. Figured I'd get a head-start and practice my deductive skills on an actual case before Bruce gets back." Jason replied smartly and flashed him a well-practiced, innocent smile. 

"Well, I see no harm in a little exercise of the mind, but you will not be working cases of any sort while under my watch. Do I make myself clear?"

"Stingy."

" _Clear_ , sir?"

"As my arteries after that deliciously healthy breakfast."

Alfred gave him possibly the most patronizing stare ever made in the history of glares. Jason squirmed uncomfortably under that look (so that's where the Batman learned the  _batglare_ ). Reluctantly, he grumbled, "...  _Fine_."

Satisfied with his answer, Alfred promptly cleared the table. Jason, however, slunk down into his chair with a content stomach and a disappointed pout on his lips. 

"Guess that means we're doing chores like normal people today?"

 

* * *

 

Much to Jason's chagrin, the rest of the morning consisted of dish washing, laundry, house cleaning, laundry, kitchen duty, and more  _laundry_. Did he mention he hated doing laundry? Granted most of the clothes and bedsheets were his so he probably shouldn't be complaining, yet there were a lot of "his" belongings mixed in that he didn't even know were his to begin with. Coming from a humble background of a one-room apartment with a single mattress and nothing but the clothes on your back, the idea of having more than two of the same thing with extras to spare still bewildered him beyond words. Jason dumped hamper after hamper into the washers and rid himself of the headache-inducing colors as quickly as possible. 

Since it was an especially warm, sunny afternoon, Alfred soon sent Jason outdoors to drape the linens and clothes on an elaborate setup of hanging wires. By this point, Jason was too mentally and physically drained to protest and Alfred thought the fresh air would do the boy some good. Alfred wouldn't realize until later, when he found a yard full of haphazardly hung sheets but undeniably empty of his young charge, that perhaps the fresh air had worked a little too well.

By the time Alfred realized he was gone, Jason had already covered quite a bit of ground, the vast acres of Wayne manor reduced to the size of a grape when he looked back from where he was steadily trudging up the deserted road leading away from the upper class suburbs into downtown Gotham. Although it probably wasn't that long ago since he had moved into the household, the memory of his first drive up this very road, turning off at the inconspicuous path leading onto the cliffs, then the cave... it all seemed like a blur, a lifetime ago. It surprisingly made him feel vulnerable and so  _alone_... Or maybe he was just feeling sorry about ditching Alfred's watchful eyes and missing his company already.

_Pfft yeah right,_  Jason thought, he'll probably feel less sappy and nostalgic after two chili dogs and a soda, and he knew exactly which hot dog stand in Gotham would give him free chili dogs in exchange for a clever joke and a cheap magic trick or two.

When Jason crested the hill, he was greeted by a clear view of Gotham City in all its concrete glory. He had to scoff a little at how the polluted, golden afternoon glow gave the rusted piers, weathered bridges, the gothic skyscrapers mixed in with the glint of glass high-rises, and murky inlets, a refreshing, pretty sheen, masking the filth underneath. He didn't need to see it to imagine where the infested corners of Crime Alley were nestled underneath, a beacon of familiarity only he could see. It wasn't homesickness—that shit-hole of a place was never a home—but it was the cesspit he was born in, a place where he could channel his anger into something productive, the place where he was beaten regularly by gang members and a drunken father, where his mother had died while a head trip took her somewhere better—

Jason's stream of thoughts suddenly froze to halt at the ghostly image of his mother. Was that  _his_  mother he had just thought of, or... someone else? Sure he was just a toddling brat when his mother had died, but somehow, Jason could only bring to mind a tear-streaked, blank face hanging in a noose and the disgusted scowl of another, burning  embers of a cigarette flashing in and out of focus between the swaying of a crowbar...

Despite the gentle breeze, Jason shivered. Bad dreams. That's all they were. He crouched down and tried to hug the warmth back into his body. 

Jason probably would have sat like that at the side of the road until sundown if a motorcyclist hadn't riden by a few moments later, zooming past him on the otherwise empty road towards Gotham Heights and the upperclass district. It wasn't even a minute later before the rider was backtracking and pulling up slowly next to him. The man sat idle on his bike for a while as if not knowing whether he should bother him or not, before nudging the kickstand out with his boot and dismounting the motorcycle. 

"You ok, kid?"

The man's voice was muffled as he crouched down beside Jason, peering at him through the tinted visor of his helmet.

" _Yeah, I'm good._ " Jason replied immediately. Not wanting to look like some poor pedestrian in need of assistance (or for some shady passerby to take advantage of), Jason sprang to his feet too quickly then almost keeled over from the sudden loss of blood to his brain. Luckily the man caught him before he could smash his face on the ground.

"Easy there, little guy. No ones gonna hurt you."

"Huh, like you won't? And don't call me that." He smacked the man's hands away. 

"What? You mean,  _little_?" The man said, chuckling and raising his hands in mock innocence. Jason could practically  _hear_  the amused smirk on his face behind the helmet. "Well then, how old are you, kid?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Jason quipped back. With the butler's absence, he was quickly getting back into the swing of his usual smart-ass attitude.  

"I would. But, I do know that kindergarteners shouldn't be wandering around without their parents, especially in Gotham."

"Do I look like a thumb-sucking baby, to you? I can look after myself." Jason jutted his chin out defiantly and the helmet tilted almost in curiosity, unswayed by the kid's tough-guy act.

It suddenly became a pointless staring competition, but Jason was the type to never back down from a potential threat, so after a whole ten minutes when Jason accidentally blinked and gave in to his compulsion to fidget, he turned away and face-palmed. "Shit."

The man was laughing now, the kind that seemed to release all the built up tension between strangers. He pulled off his helmet, brushing a sweaty curtain of black hair away from his blue eyes. 

"You better watch your potty mouth around Alfred, Little Wing. What are you doing out here by your lonesome self anyways?"

Unimpeded by the mask of the helmet, Jason now recognized the voice. He'd heard it many times while watching security playbacks of the original Dynamic Duo, albeit with a slightly higher pitched, youthful tone. Thus, the face looked familiar, although he had never actually met the man in person (except in his nightmares... But let's not open that can of worms right now). He had only ever seen him on video as a boy in a colorful, acrobatic uniform and a domino mask, skillfully weaving about and cracking down on criminals twice his size. However, without a doubt, it was him. Dick Grayson. The hero whom he had idolized for as long as he could remember. The  _original_  Boy Wonder.

_Robin_. 

Needless to say, Jason was shocked into silence, unsure of what to make of the sudden appearance of his idol and predecessor. 

Dick continued, "Hm, I guess Al's losing his touch, letting you sneak out right under his nose."

"How did you— what are you—you—"

"I—I'm—motorcycle—Dick Grayson—visiting—"

"Ha ha, very funny,  _Dick_." Jason retorted, finding his voice in annoyance with the young man's teasing. 

"I try," Dick shrugged. "Circus kid, remember?"

"Yeah, sure I do."

The two of them stared at each other for a moment, then Jason figured he liked the snarky attitude (although he seemed a lot older in person than he thought) and let his mouth break into a crooked smile. 

"Y'know, you're not half bad. For a guy who gave up Robin, that is."

"That  _was_  a pretty stupid move on my part, huh? But I hear the one who took up the mantle after me w—is a much better partner than I ever was. Why don't you tell me about him?"

Dick left his motorcycle parked on the shoulder of that deserted road and the two of them started off down the hill towards the streets of Gotham, walking side-by-side. Jason chatted the whole way— he couldn't resist the chance to show off the tricks he'd been practicing in preparation to become the next Robin. 

 

* * *

 

The sky was a fiery red by the time the black Rolls-Royce pulled up next to the park. The place was small, grungy, covered in graffiti and rundown, but it was evident the local city services did their best to keep public areas like these clean of needles and garbage despite the sad reality that the waste had a way of returning overnight. There were smoky clouds and a blinding blast of light from the setting sun reminiscent of certain foggy images in his head, but at the moment, Jason couldn't care less. 

As Alfred stepped out of the driver's seat, he was greeted by the sight of Dick and Jason racing side by side in the middle of a complex obstacle course all across the entire, empty playground. Jason was swinging across the monkey bars at an unbelievable speed while Dick lagged behind by a few paces. After somersaulting through a wall of upright tires, the two contestants sprinted for the swings where they leaped onto the rubber loops and began to swing violently back and forth with their feet digging into the seats and hands gripping the chains tightly.

"No cheating this time! If you grab my swing again, I'll..." Jason called spiritedly between breaths as he swung higher and higher.

"No worries, Little Wing. I'm all for playing fair and square!" Dick called back cheerfully, if not dishonestly.

Alfred opened the passenger door and let the well-dressed man inside step out onto the sidewalk. As he closed the door behind him, Alfred realized he had never seen such a carefree, sincerely happy look on Jason's face before. Jason had always been a reserved boy, quick to anger, impulsive, defensive, a child who took his obligations too seriously, whether it be looking after a dying mother at the age of three, standing up in opposition when he sees an unjust cause, or training to become someone who could save innocent people  _from_  those unjust causes. He was a child who hid his insecurities with snarky comments, laughed off his problems for the sake of other's troubles, and bit the head off of anyone who dared to come too close— a child forced to fill the shoes of an adult by the hardships of life, but valued his morals all the more for it.

And as Alfred and his companion knew all too well, for all the good that selfless altruism could do, it was a double-edged sword—Jason's scars ran deep with one too many cuts of his own sword, scars that the two men wished they had paid closer attention to before. 

Dick tackled Jason to the ground as they raced towards the giant alder tree at the other side of the park, tickling him into submission. Jason was freely laughing now, loud and exuberantly like a normal boy, without any smart-mouthed wisecracks, or the sarcastic, agitated remarks on the side; he was laughing, he was happy and full of energy, not for someone else or because he had to be—he was happy being  _Jason_. It was such a normal thing, a foreign concept that Jason could be unconditionally happy like any other child, that Alfred was shocked to find his eyesight suddenly blurred by tears.

His companion placed a strong hand on his shoulder reassuringly, understanding the emotion that had gripped the butler in that moment. Leaving Alfred to wait patiently by the car, the other man strode through the patched grass towards the duo as they wrestled on the open field. Jason had Dick on his back, locked in a perfect straight arm bar, but Dick was somehow unconcernedly laughing (more like choking) at his own predicament. 

He stopped without a word, standing as close as he dared without interrupting the two, but Dick noticed the other presence immediately. The young man shot up to his feet in an instant, Jason's legs still wrapped around his neck and hanging off his arm, koala-like. 

"Uh—hey, Bruce! Fancy seeing you here..." Dick trailed off as he shamefully scratched the back of this neck with his free hand and Jason dropped to the ground, staring at his feet like they were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Likewise. Hello, Jason." Bruce looked pointedly at him, but the boy didn't meet his eyes, still frowning intently at his shoelaces. 

"Hey, Bruce." A quiet voice muttered to no one in particular. 

There was a painfully abrupt pause where the three of them stood stock still, neither making the first move, and the smile faded from Dick's face. Bruce looked at Jason forlornly, Jason looked frustratedly at his toes, and Dick looked intensely from one to the other as if he could close the gap that suddenly opened between all three of them. 

Unable to stand the silence anymore, Dick opened his mouth to break the ice when both older men jumped in surprise by the sudden outburst of, "I didn't mean to run off like that just wanted a chili dog Dick was cool with it so I thought 'what the heck' but I won't do it again so please please  _please_  don't fire me I'm really  _really_  sorry!"

"... You're sorry..." Bruce echoed slowly, taking a moment to process the spew words. 

"You're probably mad that I flew the coop like that, otherwise Al wouldn't have bothered you just to come find me. Figure I should warn you, I tend to run off on a whim, y'know, follow my own instincts? And it's probably too late to change things, I'm not so sure I can be like Dickie boy and stick to the rules, so if you're having second thoughts about hiring me for the job, I don't blame you for i—"

Jason was abruptly cut off when Bruce knelt down and pulled him into a tight embrace. Dick stood on the side, quietly watching over the two and no one noticed as Alfred wiped away at his eyes with a handkerchief on the other side of the park. 

Eyes wide, his whole body froze in that instant and Jason stood there dumbly with his feet lifted slightly off the ground by the strong, but gentle arms that encircled him. Such outward affection was a completely foreign idea to him, and for it to come seemingly out of  _nowhere_  from his strict mentor of all people—for once, he had no words to fill the awkward moment, and he could only wonder why Dick was just as quiet. 

"I'm not mad at you. I never was," Bruce finally said, and there were several layers of emotions in those words that Jason couldn't understand half of. "Please, don't ever think you mean less to me than Dick, or Gotham, or the  _job_. You don't need to be Robin to have a place here. You don't need to prove anything to me. You've  _always_  had a home with us, Jason."

Jason mentally cursed when he felt his eyes water and didn't know why. It's not like he had ever felt neglected in his life or had ever hoped that someone would care enough to miss him if Jason Todd, the orphaned street kid, ever disappeared off the face of the earth. He was a realist, he understood his place in the world rolling around in the muck, scrapping with other rats for the leftovers of the more fortunate and to be honest, he never once believed he would live long enough past his teenage years to even try and  _be_  something else. He knew better than to put his hopes up for that pie in the sky you stare at every day, miles above your head where you could never reach to have a taste of. But for some impossible, inexplicable reason, Jason had just been force-fed an entire piece of that pie, and the only thought his addled brain could process now was how  _good_  it was, how he felt so undeserving, and  _how had he ever lived without this until now?_

Since his arms were trapped by the large arms surrounding him tightly, Jason closed his eyes and wiped his face on the broad shoulder his head was leaning on. A large, calloused hand came up to brush through his hair in response. Bruce picked Jason up with ease, letting him squirm to free an arm and clutch his shoulder without another word. And with Dick close behind, they walked back towards Alfred and the car, waiting to take them all home. 

 

* * *

 

In an apartment building across the street from the empty park, the illegible sounds of a television floated through the open window on the fifth floor while the black Rolls-Royce disappeared down the darkening street. The suite's tenant, surrounded by empty beer bottles and chip bags, had passed out on the couch to the drone of the news anchor as she relayed the day's latest events. 

"—In world news today, there has been a sudden spike in reported missing persons from all across the globe. Interpol and The United Nations have already begun investigations while many are left wondering—are these disappearances connected? Is there a new human trafficking organization at large? Could extra-terrestrials be involved? No comments from the JLA on the matter as of yet, however, we expect to see a public announcement by their representatives soon. Also in current events, biologists report that crucial biomes are approaching dangerous levels of collapse in major wildlife reserves in Africa, as well as…"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must be nuts to stick in some foreshadowing for a super-sized story that I'm not even a twentieth of the way from finishing, or from revealing any secrets. T_T
> 
> (By the way, I'm writing this story spontaneously, so updates won't be so regular once I've exhausted all my ideas. I am planning for some combat action in later chapters, however, so hopefully I can hold off my ADD tendencies until I get to the good stuff).
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Fool's Gold

Bruce kept his word in the weeks that followed.

There was no intensive martial arts or strength and conditioning training, no classes on forensic lab techniques, no lectures on criminology and the justice system; there wasn't even math homework for him to do since Bruce still hadn't enrolled him into school yet (not that Jason was complaining). Instead, every day was a surprisingly ordinary routine; Alfred would wake him up for breakfast, he'd say goodbye to Bruce before he went to work at the office, then wander off to tinker around with one of the old cars in the garage. It was a prototype  _Lamborghini Countach_  from the 1980's that Bruce had promised to give him one day, although Jason couldn't recall when exactly they had made that little deal. When Jason had inquired about the promise and the car one morning at breakfast, a strange look passed briefly over Bruce's face, but he easily replied saying all the tools were in the storage and to ask for help if he needed it, then left him to his own devices. After that, Jason spent a lot of time in the garage and he found that tinkering with the car and the smell of engine oil helped him forget that look on Bruce's face when he asked the question in the first place. He didn't want to read too much into it, and so let his easily distracted nine-year-old mind take the reigns. 

Dick was still crashing at the manor in his old room and would disappear sometimes (as did Alfred) to do whatever retired sidekicks do in their free time. Sometimes he would hangout with Jason and show him some gymnastics moves in the manor's private gymnasium (all of which Jason smugly perfected after only one or two tries on shaky limbs, although Dick seemed unsurprised at the fact), or sit and watch a movie with him in the theatre room. But, apart from their civilian activities during the day, Jason knew that the reason the ex-Robin, and Bruce as well, would slip away at the same time after dinner was to go patrolling over rooftops just as the sun dipped below the horizon and Gotham welcomed the darkness with open arms.

Jason couldn't help but feel a little pissed off at being left out of the loop, which he mentally argued would be him out there watching Bruce's back if only the man would let him train. Bruce had told him that day in the park that being Robin, being perfect like Dick Grayson,  _the Golden Boy_ , were irrelevant to how important he was to Bruce. But once he recovered from the emotional shock of those words several days later, Jason was left wondering—what made  _him_  so special, the exception to the mission, a dime-a-dozen orphan with no talents to offer? What was his purpose for being there at all?

The questions tormented him, kept him awake through the nights, haunted by dark thoughts and angry whispers that grew intensely, more lucid, in the passing weeks. Keeping his promise, Alfred would diligently appear by his side and comfort him through those moments until the visions of broken limbs and flashes of gun powder subsided. As the pain in his chest slowly dissipated, the last detail that would always cross his mind was Bruce's absence and he would scold himself for expecting anything more of the man who adopted him. Not that Jason didn't appreciate the old butler's kindness, or Bruce's subtle concern for his privacy, but he hated the idea of being a needy charity case, starved for attention— his pride had taken enough of an beating as is, especially after Bruce's confession at the park. And no matter how much he thought he was driving himself up the wall, letting the affection and unconditional care of these  _strangers_  comfort the abused pup they'd taken off the streets, staying on this  _side_  of the wall was still important.

Because that's what they were, afterall. Strangers.

Jason knew his world, his sense of security, would come crumbling apart if he thought of them as anything else otherwise (Jason called that feeling the 'F' word, yes, with a capital F, and no, it did not stand for his favorite swear word, and no, it wasn't ' _Friends_ ' either). After all, there was just enough crazy on the other side of his carefully made boundaries to put him on edge like that.

And then morning would come and the ghost of red masks and laughing clowns faded into the receding darkness, while Jason would find himself back at square one, content with living in this ambiguous comfort, content as is despite the regular nightmares. Then, he would get up and start another grueling day of not-training-to-become-the-next-Robin. 

He should have known his happy charade wouldn't last.

Everything went to shit when Dick caught sight of him coming out of the shower one night with fresh, red scars over his ribs (which were definitely not crushed, splintered, broken) scabbed over from the many times he'd dug his nails into the flesh along his sides and drawing blood, just to make sure they were still in one piece. He realized then that the facade of normalcy he'd tried so hard to protect himself with was blown out the window. The next thing he knew, Bruce was kneeling in front of him with hands gently squeezing his shoulders (as if that would reassure him) and talking to him about seeing a doctor. A fucking  _shrink_. 

But that's not what Jason wanted. That's not what he  _needed_. And no matter how hard he tried to stress that point to Bruce, or Alfred, or even Dick, they all seemed to be in agreement that this was for the best.  _Yeah, the best for you if it gives you peace of mind, but not me, not a fucking chance_ , Jason thought. 

So on the day when the doctor would arrive at the manor for his appointment, Jason tactfully made himself scarce. 

"I assure you, Master Jason, there is absolutely no need for these shenanigans..." 

Pranks were the last thing on his mind right now, although he took a moment to consider his options. Well, maybe next time. He would probably give away his position and that would be playing right into the cunning butler's hands. 

"Come on Jay, trust me, there's nothing to be afraid of. Doctors aren't so bad. They help make you feel better when you're hurt..." 

He wasn't afraid. And he obviously wasn't hurt. His body was in one piece and the scars were just there so he could be absolutely  _sure_.

"Please, Jason. I understand you may be strong enough to handle things on your own, but I— _we_  just want to help. Please..."

_Please, I can help you. I know what happened._  Jason was sure that was the gist of what Bruce wanted say (or maybe he's heard the same words somewhere before). But, does Bruce know what it feels like to have your wrist broken by your own father? To hear your mother suffocate in her sleep from a cocaine overdose (or see her watching you with cold eyes as your skull was cracked open like an egg)? To feel your almost-real organs burst like water balloons in the heat-pressurized center of an explosion, night after night? Bruce probably thought the stray he'd adopted out of pity was some kind of mental case, infected with a fatal disease.  _Rabid_. Jason watched unapologetic as the three adults who had taken him under their wing passed below his carefully selected hiding place, one after the other. 

Jason closed the door trap quietly and moved to sit in a dark corner of the dusty attic, where every item, every antique that had once stood proudly in the halls of the manor, but was deemed too precious to put on auction, was stowed away when their owners had passed on. There was a story here of the generations of Waynes that had once inhabited the very same walls, including Bruce's own parents, which is why Jason was sure this would be the last place he would look to find him. The memory of Bruce taking him to this attic to find an old book Jason had wanted to read, but not climbing up the ladder himself, spoke volumes on the man's aversion to this place. Too many memories to drown in. 

After dozing and browsing through the priceless collection of oil paintings, phonographs and other outdated technologies, the feeling of being suffocated in the dark forced Jason to shuffle over to the round window that looked out with a brilliant view of the bay and coastline of Gotham harbour. He carefully weedled the rusted latch out of its lock and heaved the window open, stiff on its hinges.

Although the window opening was narrow, Jason was skinny enough to squeeze through and was able to drop onto the roof safely. Given the enormous size of the building, navigating the ledges and various rooftops was like a maze, but Jason was agile and wanted to make it to his destination before his pursuers stepped back inside after greeting the visitor he spotted walking up the long driveway (a man in a trench coat and not the old, female doctor that Jason had been expecting). 

Using a set of dentistry tools he'd found in the attic, Jason was able to unlock the window and slip into the study with the old grandfather clock. Once inside, Jason quickly stacked several thick books in front of the clock as a makeshift stool and twisted the arms of the clock's face to read  _10:47_. The clock opened to reveal the hidden entrance that lay behind.

He stepped into the darkness and didn't look back.

 

* * *

 

The first time Jason had been in the batcave, he remembered almost peeing his pants in exhilaration. 

It shouldn't have been that long ago, but he honestly couldn't remember  _how long_ , so for a moment he lost himself in nostalgia of the dim darkness, its mouldy, damp smell, the distant echo of chirping bats and running water. The cavern opened up as he descended the staircase into a vast cave that stretched for nearly a mile in all directions, continuing on for who-knows-where. Needless to say, it was jaw-dropping in sheer size, and yet still managed to overflow with all of the Batman's secrets in every corner (and Jason expected nothing less. Bruce was  _the_  Batman after all); secrets including the world's most advanced supercomputer, an entire armory of state-of-the-art weapons and vehicles, and a fully equipped training facility, medical bay, and laboratory.

In short, the cave was practically a military stronghold, a testament to Batman's war on crime. It was Jason's pride in the cause—that they were helping to make sure no other kid would have to suffer at the hands of crime and abuse thanks to his and Batman's work— that made him wonder why in the world Gotham's Dark Knight had the strange habit of collecting "trophies" amongst his stash of secrets?

Despite his disapproval, Jason found himself walking through the gallery in a daze, staring longer than necessary at the colorful collection of things he shouldn't have known the significance of (but the voice in his head told him otherwise). A robotic T-Rex from a safari full of mechanized dinosaurs. A giant penny which had crushed the criminal of its namesake. The diary of an investigator who discovered the Batman's identity. Then Jason felt a familiar coldness wash over him when he saw the collection of joker cards, the exaggerated caricatures drawn in a permanent, toothy grin and the echo of chirping bats suddenly sounded like laughter and screaming.

He tore his eyes away with some difficulty (he felt the urge to scream or laugh with the bats above him, not that it would make a difference, but wouldn't that just be all sorts of inappropriate?), when suddenly the next row of cases froze him on the spot. Or, what was inside  _one_ of the cases in particular.

The first of the glass cases contained a spotlight display of ancient warrior armors, honoring the age-old crusade for fairness and justice in the history of human existence. After that, the armors became retired uniforms, in memory of a more familiar crusade— an armored Bat suit, Batgirl's uniform (the fact that Batgirl was retired from the front lines was news to him, but seemed to make perfect sense in the jumbled continuity of Jason's mind); then there was Dick's old Robin suit, a Robin suit in a different color scheme he didn't quite recognize, and both beside the one uniform in the case that shouldn't belong. This wouldn't have been worth any notice to Jason if not for the fact that it was the uniform he wore every night when he was  _beaten to death_   _by the Joker_. 

It was his Robin suit. 

Jason stood before the case—  _the fucking memorial_ — his nose almost touching the glass and the hysterical white of his eyes reflected back at him. Something wasn't right here. This whole fucking world where Dick acted like a brother and Bruce tried to be something other than a cold, rational, emotionless mentor, wasn't right. And Jason needed to wake up.

_Right_   _now_. 

When he saw the apparition of an older face appear in the glass where  _his_  Robin mask was hung, Jason nearly jumped out of his skin. He let loose the scream he'd been holding back by the skin of his teeth. 

" _UUAAAAAGHHH!_ "

Jason threw himself away from the case like he'd been burnt, bounced into something solid like a  _body_ , then spun around to flatten himself against the bronze plate that read  _A Good Soldier._

The ghost stumbled back from the impact and shouted in surprise.

" _Unf_ _—!_ _Wha_ _—_ _!?_ "

" _DON'TFUCKWITHME—!_ "

" _ _Hey__ _—Calm_ _—_ _!"_

_"FUCKINGSHIT—!_ "

" _Could you sto—!_ "

" _SCREWYOU—!_ "

" _What the hell, you—?!_ "

Both ghost and boy shouted incoherently back and forth for an entire minute, neither side giving in until they both finally stopped out of breath, staring at each other, chests heaving from the shock. 

"You _—_... _Jason?_..." The ghost caught his breath and cautiously inquired first in disbelief.

As Jason's heart beat slowed back to normal, he suddenly realized the uniform the ghost wore was similar to the unfamiliar Robin suit, but actually not the same. There was a stylized bird symbol on the chest as opposed to the 'R' found on a Robin uniform, and he wore a cowl that came to a point over his nose, like the beak of a bird. 

"... Is that  _you_... Jason?" The young man (Jason finally realized the person in front of him was actually a living, breathing body and not an apparition), who probably was in his late teens, asked again and stepped forward with his arm outstretched as if to test that the boy in front of him was the  _real_  ghost in the room and his hand would just pass through.

"... Who the hell are you?" Blatantly ignoring the question, Jason glared and swatted the tentative hand away which made the young man flinch in surprise. He was starting to get annoyed by how everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells around him, even the (not) strangers.

"I'm..." the masked teen gulped, swallowing whatever name he had wanted to say and still obviously in shock at the sight of the boy standing in the middle of the cave.

With a shake of his head, he finally shook off his hesitation and amended himself. "You don't belong here," he stated.

"Funny, I was just about to tell you the same thing, sherlock."

"No, you don't get it, Jason." The young man shook his head and his voice dropped another level, exhuding as much seriousness as possible. "You shouldn't  _be here_. This is a mistake. Bruce, what have you done?" he whispered that last sentence more to himself than Jason, but the urgency in his voice wasn't lost on the younger boy. Jason wasn't sure what to say to that and the tension rolling off the masked youth in waves was putting him on edge.

"I need to get you out of here. We need to fix this. Come with me." The older boy took a hold of Jason's elbow before he could protest and pulled him over to the vehicle lot. 

Jason struggled against the youth's strong grip. "Hey, let go, shitface— _Hey!_ " He kicked out at the older boy's knee, effectively making him trip, but he recovered quickly and nabbed Jason's collar before he could escape. After a short scuffle of Jason retaliating with some well-aimed punches and kicks, the teen had Jason pinned to the floor in a headlock. 

"Enough already! I'm trying to help you, Jason!"

"That's what everyone says, Replacement. And you have a shitty way of showing it!" Jason choked back. 

"Wait, what did you just say?"

"That everyone thinks you're an asshole? 'Cause y'know it's true."

"Oh, s _hut up_  Jason, and answer my question!"

"Wow, that didn't even make  _sense_. Do ya' want me to shut my trap or not?"

" _Jason!_ "

" _What_ ,  _Replacement?_ "

"There! You said it again."

"What?  _'Replacement'_?"

They both paused in their struggling as the arm around Jason's neck warily loosened its hold on him and Jason stopped jabbing his elbow into the other boy's ribs.

"Do you know who I am?" The costumed teen asked carefully, rising to his feet and offering his hand to help Jason up as well. Jason ignored the hand and pushed himself off the floor, pointedly dusting himself off. 

"My nanny, obviously. Since the butler's upstairs," Jason shrugged. And that seemed to push the other boy over the edge as he crossed his arms and let out a strangled grunt, probably resisting the urge to punch himself or his bratty companion, or both. Jason took the hint and raised his hands in an attempt to placate him.

"Okay, okay, I'll play nice. You obviously know who  _I_  am, but I sure as hell don't know who  _you_  are."

"Then why did you call me  _'Replacement'?_ "

"Because..." Jason opened his mouth, the words he wanted to say hanging off the tip of his tongue like a song he could hum along to, but couldn't remember the name of no matter how hard he tugged on the fishing line in his memory. He may have said otherwise, but his conscience was telling him he  _knew_  this person.  _Replacement, replacement, replacement—whose replacement?_

_Mine._

That possibility gnawed at him like an itch on the inside of his skull he couldn't reach (and itched uncomfortably close to the craziness chained to the back of his head). Being a homeless delinquent raised in the gutter of Gotham taught him how to use his words like weapons, so somehow finding himself speechless before such a simple question that he knew the answer to,  _but really shouldn't_ , distressed him beyond belief. 

Just then, there was the faint groan of the wall at the top of the staircase swinging open, followed by the muffled echo of footsteps.

"It's all right, Jason, just breathe. You don't have to answer that question," the taller boy said quickly, seeing the frenzied confusion on the other boy's face. He lay a steady hand on his shoulder. "Just clear your head and look at me—you  _know_  me.  Do you believe that?" He asked. 

The footsteps were closer now, and there was a relieved cry of, "Jason!" that sounded like Dick, at the other end of the gallery. Then his voice suddenly dropped an octave in alarm. "Red Robin,  _what do you think you're doing?_ "

Jason looked up at the masked face, the serious, thin line of the jaw and he somehow knew the mop of hair underneath the cowl was black, the eyes hidden behind the lenses were blue. And that's when it clicked—Red Robin. The  _third_  Robin. Timothy Drake. The realization hit him harder than any thug, father, or clown with a crowbar could, and Jason reeled from the wave of bitterness and betrayal that came with it. 

Dick had leapt off the upper landing and was sprinting past the  _Good Soldier_ case now, only several strides away. 

Before the deranged anger seeping through the cracks in his mental walls could make him change his mind, he nodded his head. 

As soon as his chin dipped in acknowledgement, Tim grabbed the other boy and leaped unceremoniously onto one of the motorcycles. Jason scrambled upright in the seat behind him and had barely secured his arms around Tim's waist before the bike lurched forward. Dick jumped at them at that same moment, and Jason watched as if in slow motion where Dick, in mid-leap, had his fingers just about to grasp his arm—and then he was gone in a screech of tires and rush of wind. 

 

* * *

 

They were speeding East through uptown Gotham when Jason finally overcame his motion sickness enough to reach up and try to strangle Tim. Tim was obviously less than pleased. 

"Can you at least wait until  _after_  we've stopped moving to try and kill me?" He garbled as the motorcycle swerved dangerously side to side in their struggling and oncoming traffic blared their car horns indignantly at them. Since Jason had no desire to end up roadkill on this little excursion, he settled for seething impatiently in his seat while attempting to squeeze the air out of the other boy's lungs.

Between steering the motor bike at over eighty miles per hour through traffic-congested streets, prying open the bike's side-mounted radiator so that he could remove the transmitter, picking through his uniform for  _more_  transmitters, and suffocating under the surprisingly strong bear-hug of the kid he was kidnapping, Red Robin figured he was doing a pretty good job. 

_"Red Robin. Desist and return t—"_

Tim ripped the earpiece out of his cowl, crushed it in his palm and tossed it over his shoulder along with his collection of blinking trackers. 

After ditching the transmitters, the pair spent another hour riding through several narrow alleyways and a skatepark, and making a loop around Gotham Stadium and cruising through midtown, until Tim finally concluded it was safe enough to make a pit stop so he could pry the angry little fingers from his suit and actually start breathing again. 

And it just so happened that the corner they stopped at was home to one of the best chili dog stands in town. Needless to say, coaxing Jason to eat a chili dog rather than attempting to murder his kidnapper was as easy as two bucks out of his pocket. If only coaxing supervillains to the side of justice were that easy, Tim mentally sighed. 

Once they were on the road again, Red Robin picked the busiest route out of Gotham heading northwards — he hoped to lose his pursuers in the traffic while taking advantage of the motorcycle's maneuverability (because outrunning the Batmobile in any kind of land vehicle was definitely not an option and luckily the Batwing was currently parked on the roof of Titans Tower with the  _other_  Robin). It was a long stretch, but Red Robin also crossed his fingers for the mess of vehicles along the expansive bridge to disguise their retreating forms from the vigilant street cameras. He weaved in and out between the congested cars, one time even hopping up onto the guardrail to avoid an angry driver, but they came out the other end of the bridge unscathed, and so continued on their way. 

Several miles outside of Gotham, the small suburbs and townships far behind them on the deserted highway, Red Robin's sharp ears picked up the distant telltale revving of the Batmobile's engine. Cursing under his breath, he regarded the thick wall of trees passing by on either side of the road and quickly calculated his next course of action, planning a new route to their destination. 

He silently prayed that the kid latched onto his back could keep the chili dog in his stomach. 

 

* * *

 

Jason's head disappeared into the overgrown grass for the umpteenth time as he puked up the digested remains of his beloved chili dog, feeling a pang of regret at the loss. 

When he finally lifted his head, a now cape-less Red Robin handed him a towel for his troubles (the discarded cape was safely buried several feet away along with the other half of the regurgitated chili dog). Jason snatched the towel without a word of thanks, but Tim didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, Jason could've sworn that he looked almost sympathetic, if that reserved angle of his lips and unguarded slump of his shoulders were any indicator. 

The older boy opened his mouth to finally say something, but Jason beat him to it. 

"So what now?" he asked. 

Tim answered immediately, "To the Airport. We're going to meet up with your team in New York."

" _My_  team...?"

"I'm not talking about the Titans. I just sent an encrypted message to Roy and Koriand'r to meet us at one of my safehouses in Manhattan."

When Jason's face remained neutral, uncomprehending of everything he'd just said, Tim was suddenly reminded of the problem at hand. In the frantic escape they had made from the claws of the bat, he had pushed the issue aside in favor of securing their escape route first and foremost. But, now he was faced with a boy that shouldn't have been a boy (shouldn't have had an abusive childhood, shouldn't have died trying to save his own mother, shouldn't have  _killed_  others, or tried to kill  _them —_  but still shouldn't have deserved  _this_ ) and he wasn't sure whether he should just drop the subject out of empathy or interrogate like the good detective he was supposed to be. In the end, there were simply too many questions that demanded answers, thus his rational side won over, as it usually does with him. 

"Before we go any further," he asked, while pulling off his cowl. He caught Jason's wary eyes with his own. "I want to know what you remember, Jason. Anything— who you are, your favorite things, what you were doing last month to a year ago— and especially, what you know about  _us_. You need to give me solid proof, something only  _Jason_  would know. If you can understand why, then there's no need for me to explain what we're doing here."

As Jason sat back on his haunches, he regarded the rainless, gray, overcast sky above him and let his memories (his not-nightmares) wash over him. 

Gradually, he felt the fuzzy, broken thoughts piece together in a sporadic mosaic that made perfect sense to him. He understood it with such sudden clarity that the sharpness of the truth stung clean like a blade.

But just because Jason understood, didn't mean he was happy about it.

With each piece of himself he listed off (facts, not fiction)—Jason Peter Todd,  _nineteen_  not  _nine_ , born on this date, died on that date,  _raised from the grave_  God-knows-when by a ripple through space and time,  _Talia Al'Ghul_ , chili dogs and Napolean ice cream, stole some important tires at twelve, beaten and blown to bits with his misguided sense of filial compassion at fifteen, came back and knew better of the fucked up world as the  _Red Hood_  to give himself a purpose _—_ he could feel the walls holding back all the raw anger and resentment, being chipped away at until there was nothing but the  _compulsions_  that he needed like a starved animal, starved by the unfairness of it all.

He didn't realize he was sobbing, laughing, at the pathetic existence he was living until Tim Drake, the genius Robin who was better than him in every comparable way, who met everyone's expectations and replaced him as easy as a vote between life or death,  _Tim_  or  _Jason_ — _that_  Robin, placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but Jason knew he didn't mean it. Because the number of times he had tried to kill this pretend Robin, his replacement, he had meant it (and not just dreamt the anger, the rage and felt the utter rejection). If Tim was anything less than the pessimist that he is, he would have left Jason in that illusion, surrounded by his happily adopted family that cared enough to pretend that they did. 

But of course he wasn't. In the end, they both knew he didn't belong here. As long as he stayed, he would always be an obligation, a basket case that needed behavioural correction, a stain on an otherwise perfect record. 

So Jason swore in that moment he would laugh and cry out every ounce of regret he had for the life he was never meant to have. 

Then, maybe he could finally stop trying to fake his own happiness. He wasn't a fucking charity case.

_He wasn't_. 

 

* * *

 

Several miles away, on the lonesome strip of highway where the two Robins had taken a shortcut, a red pickup truck meandered its way down the road while the Batmobile soared past in a blur of wheels and nitrous exhaust. The driver, most likely a Gothamite by his lack of surprise to the intimidating sight of the Batman in action, was lazily leaning one elbow on his open window with one hand on the wheel as the radio blared some garish country music. With a whir of static, the music suddenly stops and a news anchorwoman's voice crackles up from the dashboard.  

"We interrupt your regular programming for an important update on the escalating international human trafficking kidnappings that has shaken the world over the course of the past two weeks. Sam Amberly is reporting live from the JLA headquarters in Washington where leaders of the league and representatives of Interpol gave a public announcement earlier today on the current state of the situation. Over to you, Sam."

"Thank you, Sandy. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Peace Prize winner and prominent leader of the de-militarization movement, Ms. Marina Ghadi, was reported missing by her close associates, sending the global community into chaos. In light of these events, just moments ago, Superman gave a statement at the Pentagon in address to the people worldwide, calling for a united front between the world leaders. Here is an excerpt from his speech."

"... The Justice League is putting the missing persons at the top of their priorities. Supervillain activity is currently at an all time low but by no means are we eliminating the possibility of their involvement. If anything, the JLA will be investigating into every criminal factor in cooperation with Interpol and the United Nations to save innocent lives and return them to their families as quickly as possible."

"Other prominent members of the League present include Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Cyborg, The Flash, Green Arrow, Black Canary, Red Tornado, Hawkgirl and Green Lantern, to name a few. If you're wondering if this list is missing one, crucial member in particular who may be the key to solving these mysterious disappearances, the World's Greatest Detective was surprisingly absent from today's address. One can only hope this is a sign that a plan is already in the works and it won't be long until our loved ones are home once again, safe and sound. Back to you, Sandy."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, not sure how I feel about this one. I pretty much just started typing with a vague direction in mind, then all of a sudden - hey, it's Tim! If there's anyone who can get the ball rolling, he's your man.
> 
> And I stuck in some random facts about the Batcave, just for fun. It was interesting looking up their backstories.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and commenting!


	4. A Salvaged Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: for some graphic stuff in this chapter, but nothing too horrible, since I tried to keep my inner goth in check. If you've got a queasy stomach and overactive imagination, I would skim through the imagery quick.

"Bruce, you can't keep doing this."

After nearly an hour of one-sided conversation and attempts at a productive discussion of the other man's unhealthy practice of brooding in his cave (literally), the only response the blue-and-red clad superhero on the screen achieved for his hard work was a disgruntled, "Hm."

There was an audible sigh and a shift in the video chat window, but Bruce didn't bother sparing the other man even a glance of recognition. He was suited up in the familiar uniform of the Batman with the cowl removed as his eyes scanned the patchwork of video feeds on the giant screen before him with intense focus. The tiny rectangle that was pushed aside to the top corner of the gigantic supercomputer in which the kryptonian superhero's face was framed spoke volumes on exactly how much value the Batman placed on his supposed friend's opinion on the matter.

"I know how much you hate catering to the media, but of all the meetings and missions you've been absent from this whole time, I wasn't expecting you of all people to ignore this, even convincing J'onn off the case as well. The Bruce Wayne I know wouldn't ignore people in need so selfishly like this."

"Who says Bruce Wayne is the man behind the mask?" Bruce challenged with mock intent, like he hasn't had this conversation before. 

"I'm serious, Bruce..."

"So am I."

" _Bruce_."

"Clark."

There's another groan of exasperation and a string of frustrated mumbles, while in the background there's a distant shout of,  _hey, is that Bats on the line? Tell him he still owes me a year's supply of chicken wizzies for stopping that hurricane in less than twenty seconds last spring. The speed force doesn't feed itself, ya' know?_  And that only draws another disgruntled sigh from Superman. 

Luckily for the Man of Steel, The Martian Manhunter decided to materialize behind Batman at that moment and save him from another grueling hour of stonewalled conversation (or total lack thereof). The martian was disguised in his "John Jones" persona, wearing a brown trench coat and lightly tanned skin. 

"I apologize for my absence from the conference earlier today, Superman. Batman may have requested my assistance, but I came of my own volition," J'onn solemnly cut in. The air around him rippled and he was suddenly standing in his natural alien appearance of green skin and red eyes. 

Clark took a moment to process J'onn's words. The impossibly grim, stubborn, antisocial vigilante of Gotham City calling in favors from a teammate? Now that was something you don't see everyday. Clark visibly glanced over his shoulder and did a quick scan of the Earth through the Watchtower bay windows to make sure he was in the right dimension and hadn't been sucked into an alternate universe when he wasn't paying attention. 

J'onn raised an eyebrow at him and it was Bruce's turn to heave a sigh in resignation. 

The billionaire turned to the martian. "No, this is my fault, J'onn," he explained. "I should have known better than to ask for help with a personal matter from a colleague." He rubbed his face tiredly with one hand and leaned back in his chair. 

J'onn gripped the man's shoulder in understanding. "As I said, it was my decision. I am glad you came to me for help, as a friend."

Picking up on the (more than usual) solemn tension on the other side of the screen, and sensing that there was more to the story behind his friend's stony facade than just his usual brooding, introverted self, Clark asked, "Is something wrong, Bruce?"

Bruce stiffened imperceptibly in his chair and his eyes subtly hardened when he finally looked Clark in the eye through the screen. Clark had known the man under the cowl for far longer than any other superhero, so he could say with at least twice as much confidence than anyone else (which actually wasn't saying much, but he took what he can get) that Bruce was obviously not dealing very well with whatever burdens he was currently carrying on his shoulders.

J'onn notably remained silent, but he hadn't removed his hand from Bruce's shoulder, a sign of encouragement. 

Bruce, on his part, glared at both of them in turn, not budging an inch. 

Clark heaved another heavy sigh, tiredly massaging his temples and tried again. "Bruce, you  _need_  to tell me what's going on. The world is facing a crisis, the League is readying to go to war on terrorism, and you've been holed up in Gotham for almost two months now," Clark swallowed his frustration and softened his tone. "I know you wouldn't have disappeared on us without a good reason. And you know that you can count on me if you ever need help."  _Not that you would ever ask for it,_  Clark didn't say. 

But Clark's words must have somehow gotten through to Bruce, as the Batman's harsh appearance seemed to slowly melt away until all that was left were the weary lines of a troubled man. 

It was a sign of absolute trust that Bruce allowed this vulnerable side of himself to show through to them, the human haunted by the tragedies of his family and tormented by the dark side of human nature. Clark silently vowed not to take this moment for granted. 

When Bruce next opened his mouth, the truth was far from what Clark was expecting (because nothing less than a conspiracy threat to peace in the universe, a mass prison breakout from Arkham and Blackgate, or of course, the  _Joker_ , could occupy the Batman's attention so completely, but not—)

"... Jason was here. At the manor. For the last few weeks."

"You mean your—?"

"Yes."

Clark paused, a little stumped at what to make of this new development. He voiced carefully, "I don't think I'm reading the atmosphere correctly, because I would assume having your lost son finally home and not out in the world causing havoc is a good thing. And I'm happy for you if that's the case, but..."

"My  _nine-year-old_ adopted son was here, Clark. The Jason that I found was  _nine years old,_ " Bruce pointedly emphasized, trying to keep his voice under control, to get his comrade to realize the significance of the issue and his conflicted feelings in the matter all in one breath.

And even at 40,000 kilometers above his stubborn friend grounded on the Earth's surface, Superman felt the importance of this sudden revelation hit him hard, like a blow from a kryptonite-knuckled fist. 

When you're a super-powered household name throughout the universe and a prominent member of a superhero community including meta-humans, magic users, and aliens alike, you tend to find yourself in phenomenal situations on a weekly basis and learn to take them in stride. And compared to an army of sentient robots, or a world inhabited by talking animals, reverse-aging and cloning were definitely near the bottom on Clark's list of weird things that could happen (Superboy was a clone after all, so he was in no position to argue otherwise). But for it to happen to the Robin who was killed, the Robin who was raised from the grave with a vengeance, the Robin that few others knew the Batman considered his greatest failure? A touchy subject like this was on a whole other level of trouble that couldn't be fixed with a strong arm, or heat vision, or some mathematical algorithm. 

For the rare individuals who actually knew  _something_  about the topic of Jason Todd—the boy that should have been a lot of things, but died a lonely, painful, death at the hands of the Joker before he'd even outgrown the nest—they knew it was nothing less than an emotional minefield for the Bats and their patriarch; a cautionary tale of mistakes, poor life choices, and a revival gone horribly wrong in the form of a homicidal, Lazarus-crazed zombie. Clark knew he would have to tread carefully, so he chose to gloss over the details (since he knew Bruce wouldn't elaborate anyways) and went straight to the heart of the problem. 

"What happened?"

As the kryptonian would soon find out, Bruce's problems (and his own) may not be as easy as a three-minute monologue over a video call that was already long past its per-call limit in hours. 

Superman definitely wasn't looking forward to the JLA's service bill next month. 

 

* * *

 

It had been nearly half a year since an agent of the Bat family last had any contact with their ambiguous, occasional ally, the Red Hood. 

The last one to see him in person would have been Black Bat when the walking armory of a man sniped her information source, a Triad crime lord, and disappeared into the depths of Hong Kong without a single word of "You're welcome," or "Sorry for the dead body. I'll make it up to you someday." Black Bat was unimpressed to say the least, and conveyed as much to her brother, Red Robin, who took on the tedious task of hunting down their rebellious, undead sibling.

Two weeks passed since the investigation started and still no sign of the elusive man. It was suspicious for sure, even knowing the possibility that he could easily be lounging on a beach somewhere with his teammates, the Outlaws, drinking tequilas all day. But, Red Robin had worked with the Red Hood before on several occasions, knew how he operated, and assassinations of relatively harmless figurehead gang lords didn't quite fit the bill on his MO. 

Thus, Red Robin soon left Gotham to track down the Outlaws while Batman and his allies continued their own investigations into a new force in the international black market dealing with human trafficking. 

(And doesn't that sound familiar to everyone's problems at the moment?)

Batman and Robin got their chance to gather some potentially solid evidence when rumors of a Reefer shipment of frozen, perishable foods from Malaysia was passing through cities down the Atlantic coast, Gotham included. 

By all appearances, the ship was a typical cargo ship legally carrying its staple meats, fish, and fruits, and had passed all border inspections thus far. So what made this freighter so suspicious? It certainly wouldn't have raised any red flags if the very same ship had not gone missing years prior in the Malacca Straits, supposedly pillaged and sunk by pirates.

The ship sailed under a new identity now, but as Robin wordlessly pointed out to Batman as the duo were grappling up the side, the hull had been painted over much more recently. A quick scrape off of the newly christened name revealed the weathered lettering of the ship's true identity.

Batman and Robin slipped over the outer decks quietly with the occasional watchmen (carrying rifles of course) obliviously doing their rounds, but the interior was unsurprisingly swarming with armed guards. Needless to say, Batman and his partner efficiently took down the soldiers in silence and continued deeper into the depths of the carrier.

Batman had expected a five minute window before the men realized what was going on with missed check-ins and the zip-tied bodies, so by the time the alarm was blaring the pair had already made it to the lower storage levels. What they found made Robin's blood boil. 

Hundreds of people, old and young, huddled together like prisoners, thankfully clothed and apparently unharmed, filling up the large, expansive space from side to side over two football fields in length. There wasn't any doubt that these were a fraction of the missing people reported from various parts of the world, passing right over Gotham's doorstep.

Having sent an alert to Commissioner Gordon and the harbor police the moment the missing people were found, Batman and Robin quickly went about securing a safe escape route for the civilians. The Batmobile was remotely positioned to shoot off an evacuation chute right at the makeshift opening that Batman created with explosive gel and Robin went ahead first to secure the harborside of any remaining henchmen alerted to the commotion. The entrance to the cargo area shoved open just as the civilians were given the signal to make their escape, however, Batman was ready for them. He pounced from out of the shadows above before any of the gunmen could take a single step further. Shots and shouts were fired harmlessly at the shadows in a panic, but when all was said and done, Batman made quick work of the rest of the soldiers on the ship before even the last evacuee had made their exit.

There were less than a dozen of them left when a young woman approached him.

" _Kelelawar. Ada lantai lain..._ " There was another level, she said. At least, she believed there was. She was one of the kidnapped people who had been on the ship the longest, seen the henchman driving crates, smelling something foul like vomit and rotting meat...

Batman was gone the moment she, the last civilian, vaulted down the slide into the waiting arms of the paramedics. He found an industrial lift that took him deeper down into the ship, where only the ballast tank was left between him and the polluted depths of the harbor. The rancid smell grew stronger through the elevator shaft. 

When the lift doors slid open, Batman almost retched from the overpowering stench of death that wafted through. The only light source came from the lift, which barely penetrated the pitch black surroundings, so he quickly took out a flashlight from his utility belt and ventured cautiously onto the floor. 

There was a consistent buzzing in the air and the beam from the flashlight revealed rows upon rows of crates surrounded by swarms of flies. Although Batman's compose remained steady in the face of what morbid truth could obviously be inside the crates, what he wasn't prepared for was the muffled sound of knocking.

_Thunk. Thunk._

Batman warily followed the sounds (a quiet rapping, rapping...) to its source—a crate. Taking out a batarang, he moves automatically, plying open the edges of the crate's side, every fiber in his body pulled taut like a spring, ready to defend, attack, move,  _something_. 

With a loud groan and a sharp crack, the side falls open and Batman swiftly shifts out of the way as a mound of human bodies in various degrees of decomposition slump across the floor as the flies scatter every which way. 

Something shifts beneath the pile and Batman moves quickly, lifting the corpses aside until he pulls out a boy, covered in filth and blood, sickly pale and shaking fearfully in nothing but a ragged t-shirt. 

Batman drops his flashlight in shock when it falls on the boy's face—a face he'd thought would haunt him to his grave, immortalized in nothing but picture albums and his memory of happier times. 

Jason Todd.

Batman swore the boy could have been his adopted son's double, but much smaller, much  _younger;_  the boy could have been real, if not for the fact that his son had already been killed and reanimated as an adult, a cold-blooded killer who now called himself the Red Hood. 

In that moment, the Dark Knight struggled to catch his bearings, a war waging within himself to take control of the undeniable fact that Jason was no longer a Robin, or a son—he was a full grown man, an enemy and a criminal—and yet...

Every doubt, every rational thought affirming the impossibility of this boy's existence in his arms at that moment (like another moment in his life when he'd been too late to save another boy, nothing left but a deadweight in his arms), is scattered to the wind when the boy's blank eyes look at him, widen in recognition and he whispers—

" _Br'ss...?_ "

Kneeling there in shock, the Batman's mind processing numerous possibilities per second, Bruce moves robotically, his limbs numb, assessing the boy for injuries and carefully picks up his emaciated form in the folds of his cape. The boy doesn't resist and gives him a tired smile.

"You made it in time," he rasps a little more clearly,  _earnestly_ , like the whole world was right again, like the gore and deathly atmosphere surrounding them was nothing but an illusion. 

Outside, the paramedics, news reporters, and GCPD had their hands full with a few hundred displaced civilians and a ship full of international terrorists as well as a morbid secret. Batman easily slipped away unnoticed in the chaos with his charge in tow, signaling the batmobile and Robin to reconvene at an indistinct location south of the Narrows. 

As Bruce grappled across the city with his fragile bundle tucked close against him, he had only one objective on his mind:

Home. 

 

* * *

 

"I've run DNA profiles and obtained autopsy reports on some of the recovered bodies from the ship. So far, they match every missing individual still currently unaccounted for. As for the boy, I've done the same testing and some observational assessments. The results thus far match the profile in my database, although I have yet to run an actual cognitive test with him."

Bruce reported stiffly, like a soldier giving his mission report. 

Clark didn't believe his act for a second. He turned to the martian who had been silent throughout Bruce's entire story. 

"... So that's why you're there, J'onn? To give the boy a telepathic scan?"

Before J'onn could reply, Bruce answered, "Yes. J'onn was going to test him under the guise of a psychologist."

"Bruce, I know this must be hard for you, even if you won't admit it, but I hope you realize that it's highly unlikely that this boy is your Jason—"

"He isn't."

"—the chances of this being some sort of time paradox or involving magic are..." Clark trailed off when his brain caught up to the fact that his friend had spoken. "He's not?"

Bruce typed a few key words into the computer and brought up a recent report which Superman would be able to see on his screen in the Watchtower. 

"I did a physical examination after I'd brought him back to the cave. I found recent indentations from where a subcutaneous microchip was embedded and forcibly removed. When Jason was young, he had several scars from his time on the streets and signs of abuse including a healed fracture in his left radius. This boy... has none."

"A clone then. With a tracker."

"And programmed memories, possibly."

It didn't make any sense. The Red Hood goes missing around the same time that reports on missing civilians began to rise; several months later, a couple hundred of those missing people are found hostage on a ghost ship potentially carrying the bodies of now  _murdered_  individuals; and the Batman finds a clone of his missing son amongst those rotting corpses...

Then the realization struck him. "You think those bodies were actually—the traffickers' objective was—then the missing humans may be still alive!" Clark exclaimed. 

He may not know exactly why yet, but at least it was something, a part of the puzzle that was starting to feel like over five hundred apiece. 

The Batman nodded his head patiently, as if his entire explanation thus far had been leading Superman to that very conclusion (it probably was). But then Bruce suddenly turned back to the console and resumed brooding over the video feeds from various traffic cameras across Gotham.

"I can't be entirely sure yet, given the corpses were already decomposed substantially and any traces left of the cloning process that could have matched to the boy have been destroyed at this point, and there were no signs of the microchips. The only option left would be for J'onn to telepathically probe for memory tampering and mental triggers."

"So have you found anything, J'onn?"

"No, I have not had the chance to even meet the boy yet."

"But, then...?"

"Jason  _was_  here, Clark." Bruce emphasized and gave him that look again that silently said,  _the Earth is round, cats always land on their feet by controlling their moment of inertia, and two bodies exert a gravitational force on each other directly proportional to the product of their masses, so why doesn't anyone ever understand?_  "He was taken less than four hours ago and I'm currently in the middle of tracking down his kidnapper."

" _Who?_ " Clark wondered what kind of criminal would dare to steal something from right under the World's Greatest Detective's nose. However, if the original perpetrators were involved somehow, that would make the pursuit much easier and take them one step closer to saving the missing people.

Bruce's hawklike gaze zeroed in on the tiny red motorcycle in one of the screens, zipping cautiously between lanes and hiding behind cars as much as possible while enroute to Gotham Airport. 

"Red Robin."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks for the comments everyone! I appreciate all the feedback on character and dynamics going on in the story so far, it helps me find the right voice and actions for them.
> 
> ( _They_ are definitely driving this story, not me, unfortunately T_T)
> 
> Sorry for not responding yet to some of you, but I definitely will as soon as I can!
> 
> On that note, I have some good news and bad news.  
> Bad news: This is the last chapter I've had drafted in the story thus far, so updates will be much longer than usual from this point on. =(  
> Good news: I've got a solid draft for the final chapter of this story done (how did that happen??), so now I've officially signed my life away and will have to finish this story eventually, no matter what.
> 
> Phew, now that that's off my chest, I will scuttle off to finish chapter 5.
> 
> Thanks for reading and see you next chapter!


	5. Uncharted Arrivals

 

 

For the hundredth time throughout the entire five hours of  _boredom_ , Damian let out a very disgruntled,  _-tt-_ , that made the poor businessman sitting nearby visibly flinch for the hundredth—no wait, make that  _one-hundred-and-first_  time. The extra flinch came from when Damian suddenly fisted his cup in a vice grip, thankfully already empty of any liquids when the glass suddenly  _cracked_. 

Damian and his unfortunate companion were currently sitting in cushy leather chairs on a first-class flight across the United States from San Francisco to Gotham City, a civilian flight only reserved for the upper echelons of society and the privileged. The airline company prided themselves in providing one of the best travel services money can buy with a full course dining experience, spacious, automated massage chairs, high definition mini theaters, and bragging rights to a perfect five-star customer satisfaction rating. But, as the unfortunate passengers and attendants soon realized once the jet lifted off the runway five hours ago, the twelve-year-old heir to the Wayne fortune was apparently the most irritable, obstinate, and contrary exception to their usual clientele, all without muttering a single word. All he needed was to give an occasional scoff and gesture of overall discontent when anyone tried to approach him, and the world around him was thrown into hysterics.

The flight attendants were at a loss at what to do; their careers were at stake afterall, for leaving a passenger so dissatisfied—a dissatisfied  _Wayne_ , no less. The captain had already announced the landing phase of the flight and their window of opportunity to pacify the most entitled middle schooler on the planet was growing smaller by the minute. 

Meanwhile, Damian was brooding in typical Bat fashion as he stared out the window, oblivious to the company-wide crisis he was causing and thinking the freshly squeezed, pulp-less orange juice they served was excellent. It didn't help, however, that he was frustratingly reminded of the state he had found the Batwing in after leaving it unsupervised for  _not even half a day_  before his colleagues—not teammates, or comrades, or God forbid,  _friends_ —had somehow gotten silly string, cotton candy, and  _toilet paper_  wrapped all over it, like some horrendously large, mummified bat. 

And so, he had been forced to leave the plane behind until it was cleaned to his satisfaction by the childish heroes his father and older brother insisted on him collaborating with (the West girl had abandoned ship the moment he stepped into the common room, leaving her teammates to face the wrath of an aggravated Robin and hours of consequential scrubbing ahead of them). Damian would have to apologize later to his father for the inconvenience, and perhaps replant the idea of getting him parts to build a Robin plane. One that was silly string-proof, of course. 

Speaking of his father and older siblings, the elder members of the family were the reason for this entire trip in the first place. He wasn't expected back in Gotham for another week at most, but the closer the date of his return trip approached, the more agitated he became. He couldn't help feeling distraught over wondering how his father had dealt with the state of affairs they had uncovered before he'd left.

And by that point, he was practically going stir-crazy and such an unpleasant presence to be around (that is, according to the Teen Titans—Damian personally thought he had been handling himself rather well since only fourteen training drones needed to be replaced rather than the usual twenty-five), thus, he'd decided to leave a week early and demand some answers on the matter in person. His bad mood was only soured even more when he'd been informed by Wayne Enterprises CEO, Lucius Fox, that his father's private jets in California were undergoing routine maintenance and wouldn't be in service for another day or two at least. Not being one for patience, Damian promptly chartered the quickest, classiest flight to Gotham his father's money could buy and hopped on the plane before anyone could say,  _Holy highbrow, Batman!_

It was the cusp of evening when Damian's flight touched down on the tarmac and he exited the plane with a flock of attendants hovering behind him (he gave them all a generous tip just to make them stop). Promptly collecting what little baggage he had, Damian made his way through the terminal towards the exit where a limo was waiting to take him back to the manor.

Or at least that was the plan, until he heard a familiar voice hiss loudly, "Just because you  _look_  like a little shit, doesn't mean you have to  _act_  like one."

The young Wayne heir spun on his heel, fully prepared to shred apart whatever imbecile had dared to mock him—but the space behind him was empty. Damian immediately scanned the faces of the travel-goers passing him in the spacious lobby and his sharp eyes locked on a suspicious pair conversing in hushed angry whispers nearby. The young Robin took point behind a pillar. 

"I'll take that as a compliment," the shorter of the two boys flippantly replied. There was something about him, his abrasive tone and threatening stance, that made Damian feel like putting a dagger in his back. 

Then Damian heard that familiar voice again—the teenager, glaring down at the younger from behind a pair of shades, and he realized who it was with a flash of agitation.  _Drake_. 

Tim flexed his fingers and threw his hands up, as if he would like nothing better than to just grab the kid and  _flip_  him. " _Why me?_ " He griped. "Cass doesn't get cases like this.  _Ever_. Fucking story of my life."

"Hey, I'm not exactly having a hoedown over here either," the boy exclaimed, pushing off his hood to better show his distaste. "I'm just saying, if  _I_  were a teenaged, vigilante kidnapper,  _I_  wouldn't be using the private jet Daddy Warbucks bought me for Christmas to try and shake him off my tail. But, hey, I'm  _not_  a teenaged, vigilante kidnapper, so what do I know?"

The older boy wisely chose not to follow up on that remark (but he grunted his displeasure all the same). He reached out and harshly yanked the hood of the kid's sweater back over his head, then proceeded to march the kid towards the check-in block. 

"I'd like to see you try walking out of the Batman's city without him even  _knowing_. I've got several contingencies for situations like these, but this was the best I could do on such short notice. If it makes you feel any better, this plane has the latest avionics platform and ESM sensors installed. All Wayne-tech, but I commissioned them myself. And if we're followed, we'll know."

"Oh, that makes me feel  _so_  much better. I'd like to see what you've got up your sleeve when you actually got time on your hands to figure shit out."

"Keep walking, kid."

"Y'know this isn't going to work."

"Preaching to the choir."

Their voices were swallowed up by the undertones and murmuring of the terminal as Damian watched the two boys walk away in the other direction. 

Honestly, he had half a mind to just leave Drake alone without confrontation, before any metaphorical gauntlets were thrown down between them. It wasn't his concern what the other Wayne heir was up to, and he certainly had no interest in the affairs of his least favorite adopted brother. So Damian probably would have let the matter drop altogether and be on his way—if he hadn't have caught a glimpse of the younger boy's frowning face when his hood slipped off. 

His father's current investigations revolved around the  _clone_  of Jason Todd, the one he'd found on the freighter that night, now nearly two months ago. It was that very same clone that was the root of Damian's current objective, the one now walking towards a security check point with Drake in tow and a flight attendant in the lead, most likely giving them a free by-pass courtesy of the name "Timothy Drake-Wayne."

Damian smirked as he moved to follow at a reasonable distance behind, already concocting several plans to slip past the security guards and sneak onto the plane. 

It seems his initiative in coming back to Gotham was paying off rather nicely. Who says patience is a virtue?

(He'd have to tell Grayson off for trying to teach him such an ineffectual skill in the first place). 

As Damian smoothly fell into the lineup of passengers waiting to pass through the checkpoint, he noticed several more security guards making their way over from the other side of the barrier, making a beeline for the unruly pair conversing with the airport officials. However, these men certainly weren't your average surveillance guards. The uniform was right, but the body language was all wrong—stiff, mechanical and efficient, no slacking movements in their strides. Soldiers. 

Damian slowly reached into his duffel bag, just in case...

And without warning, the clone landed a hard kick to the groin of the security guard in front of him and bolted out into the crowd. 

" _Hey! Hold it right there!_ " The soldiers in disguise had dropped all pretense and were shoving people out of the way as they hurtled towards the gate to give chase. 

At the same time that Tim delivered a drop kick to one of the passing pursuers, Damian hurled several smoke pellets at the remaining chasers, sending the the civilians into a rush of screams and chaos. Both boys leapt into the midst of the confused guards, fists and legs hitting their marks and flooring two soldiers simultaneously. 

One of the soldiers managed to radio in a message between his choking coughs. "Charlie to Alpha, we have a code black. Target has fled and we have several unknown attackers on us. Requesting reinforcements and immediate civilian evac of the premis—"

Damian leapt through the smoke and nailed the man in the temple with a roundhouse kick, effectively knocking him out. 

The radio on the man's shoulder buzzed in response. 

_< Copy that, Charlie. Sending in delta team and activating airport evac protocols.>_

"- _Tt-_ ," Damian scoffed in annoyance as a loud siren began to blare overhead of the fleeing crowd. 

A sudden crash behind him, audible above the wailing alarms, made the Son of the Bat turn just in time to see Tim on top of another soldier on the crushed remains of the X-Ray scanner, knocking him unconscious with one hard swing of his retracted Bo staff. 

"Your clumsy handling of the situation is appalling as usual, Drake," Damian loudly mocks above the wail of the alarm as the smoke clears and Tim stalks up to him. 

"None of your business, Demon brat. What're you doing here?" Tim shot him a dubious glare, equally adverse to his younger sibling's untimely appearance.

Damian crossed his arms defensively and answers, "To clean up after your blunder and take the clone back under our custody, of course."

" _Jason_  stays with me. Bruce and Dick may deny it, but they're too emotionally invested to handle this case, so I'm taking it off their hands."

The younger boy wrinkled his nose in offense. "Grayson may be compromised by his foolish sense of guilt and obligation, but Father certainly is not."

"Then you obviously don't know him well enough." Tim unzipped his backpack and opened the secret compartment where his gear and uniform was stashed. "I'm going after him. And  _you_  will keep your annoying, little pug-nose out of it," Tim retorted as he picked a blind spot in the security cameras' sights and started quickly changing. 

Damian huffed, ignoring the insult and slipping away between the thinning slew of evacuating civilians to find his own camera blind spot. "For once, I agree, Drake. To the victor go the spoils."

And when all was said and done, Damian would make sure  _he_  came out the victor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gotham International Airport was a deluge of civilians and officers, packed elbow-to-elbow on the expansive parking lot outside the terminals. 

Whatever had triggered the evacuation, Nightwing was grateful for the distraction as he maneuvered his motorcycle around to the service and hangar gate entrance. From there, he could continue via the outdoor service lanes towards the terminals where Jason and Tim were last seen on the video feeds. He was hoping to cut them off before they boarded a flight to who-knows-where.

Nightwing slipped like a shadow between the buildings, steadily making his way across the extensive concreted area. With nothing to occupy his immediate attention, he found he could no longer drown out that nagging voice at the back of his mind loudly proclaiming what he wasn't brave enough to admit—that he was an idiot for thinking he could miraculously fix a relationship that never really existed in the first place; that he shouldn't have went along with Bruce's complicated plans, ignoring how messed up this whole ordeal actually was; that Dick had forgotten about a time when Jason could have become something more than the discredited things they labeled him as. He could have been a friend, a brother, a  _son._

Yeah, there were a lot of things that Dick could only speculate on about Jason (he could write a ten-page essay on the possibilities alone—in 10 pt font, single-spaced lines, of course. And minimal margins). He was grasping at straws by now, wondering how much of the Jason he'd seen through a biased lens was true, and how much of him was the boy he'd shared his favorite movies with only several days ago? Hindsight was always 20/20, but too often than not, Dick found himself asking  _what if?_  over the past few weeks he'd spent with the young clone—a clone of the man he'd never tried to understand, and perhaps had held a grudge against once upon a time, repulsed at the idea of an arrogant brat like him with a nuclear attitude and a penchant for getting himself into trouble wearing  _his_  colors. 

Sure, years ago he had tried to make friends with the fearless, impulsive street kid Bruce had taken in, but looking back, it was nothing but petulance and judgment on his part, subconscious expectations behind his attempts at brotherly interaction, a self-fulfilling prophecy where he tallied every bad choice, every slip-up he could find. As a kid born and bred on the crime-infested streets of Gotham, Jason had probably smelled the insincerity practically oozing off his skin. Maybe that was the reason why Jason had never warmed up to him in the first place. He couldn't blame him for that. 

But, whatever bitter feelings they had for each other back then, it had been enough to throw oil on the hellfire of a bridge between him and Bruce at the time, and Dick had simply docked Jason off as another mistake that Bruce would regret sooner or later. 

Dick couldn't have hated himself more than when he realized how careless that train of thought had been. 

And maybe it was the shock of Jason suddenly dead and buried six feet deep by the time he'd even heard the news; or him and the Red Hood beating each other to a bloody pulp over Bruce's legacy, all the while wondering how he was somehow responsible for creating this revenge-seeking killer; but somewhere in between, Dick had come to realize how Jason,  _never should have turned out this way._

The fact of the matter was that Jason had never had a proper role model in his life to emulate, and Dick wondered if that might have explained why he was so resistant to him and Bruce's influence in the first place. Adulthood and the responsibilities that came with it made him think about how Jason could have thrived under a different kind of counseling, just as Tim and Damian did— _especially_  Damian. And it was Dick's hindsight and the reality of the last two months that confirmed that Jason was practically a lamb compared to Damian's volatile years as a pretentious, ten-year-old assassin. That notion only furthered Dick's desperation to make things right in the eyes of a boy that wasn't really  _their Jason_.

Was Nightwing punishing himself with the guilt, or subconsciously hoping for a second chance? Maybe he was making up excuses, in the only way you can when the person you're making excuses for was already dead (but Jason wasn't.  _Not anymore_ ,  _not until we have proof,_  he had to keep reminding himself). Perhaps it didn't matter either way, since that same voice of reason in his mind understood that Tim was doing what they should have been doing months ago—that is,  _solving the damn case so he can get over himself and they can move on with their goddamn lives._

_You need to focus,_ Nightwing berated himself. _Get little Jason back first, convince Tim to work with us on the case, save the world,_  then  _you can wallow in your guilt to your masochistic heart's content._

But that was easier said than done. By no means was Dick expecting this mission to be a walk through the park, what with Tim's stubbornness and ingenious plotting, but as he turned a corner around a scissor lift parking lot, he definitely wasn't expecting to be suddenly greeted out of nowhere by a platoon of guards armed with rifles, taser guns, grenades and other explosive goodies.

"What? You guys having a party without me?" He shrugged without missing a beat as a dozen lasers converged dead center on his chest. "Guess my invite got lost in the mail."

The Acrobat somersaulted through a rain of gunfire, taking the ensuing fight into close combat. With several rapid strikes of his eskrima sticks, he knocked out two in one go, then zapped another with three electrified jabs to the stomach. He smoothly dodged one soldier by flipping over his comrade, disarming the one beyond him with a flying sidekick to his chest, making him drop the flash grenade he was about to unpin.

He twirled into a spinning hook kick to the jaw of the man he'd used as a spring board and deftly scooped up the discarded flash grenade in one movement.

"Forgot to mention I'm not much of a raver, but I'm sure you guys can put this to good use." And with that, Nightwing popped the flashbang while turning up the shielding in his lenses.

The soldiers scattered in the few milliseconds before the grenade exploded in a blinding flash of light and a deafening  _boom!_  By the time they recovered from the stun, the blue-striped vigilante was gone.

" _Spread out!_  There're more Bats where that one came from. Lock down the vicinity. No one else gets to the target before  _we_  do, understood?"

A sharp salute of  _Yes, sir!_ 's are given, then the unit are moving out over the concrete, sticking close to the vehicles and edge of the building.

From his vantage point over thirty feet above on top of a scissor lift's extended platform, Nightwing examines an ID card he'd swiped from one of the men below. Under his trained eye and upon close inspection, Dick could tell the card was a forgery—a very good one at that.

Nightwing tapped the commlink in his ear. "Oracle, can you look up a 'Sean MacPherson' in Airport Security's staff files? I'm about ninety-nine percent sure this ID is a fake, but whatever you can find out might shed some light on who we're dealing with."

_< On it, Nightwing. Gotham International Airport uses fingerprint ID for some of their higher security areas, so you might want to scan the card for prints if there are any.>_

"Gotcha."

_< And can you give me a status report?>_

"Right, sorry. An airport evac is in effect right now, but you already know about that, I'm sure. I just had a run in with some armed soldiers disguising themselves as airport security. I managed to ditch them, but I have a feeling they have something to do with Jason and the case."

_<... We'll find out who they are soon enough. In the meantime, you should focus on retrieving Red Robin and the clone. We can't afford to divide ourselves over some domestic Bat dispute right now. Too many lives are at stake here. >_

"You're right, O, as always. Nightwing out."

Several miles away, in the penthouse suite of the Clocktower in downtown Gotham, Barbara Gordon watches as her radio link with Nightwing is switched back to standby on her screen. Nightwing wasn't listening anymore, but she whispered anyways, "You know I am, Dick. That's the only reason I'm doing this. For everyone's sakes." She types in a command to the impressive set up of computers in front of her and a new communication link is established on the massive holo screen. 

"This is Oracle. We have a slight complication and you'll need to head directly to Gotham Airport."

_< Should've expec—that one. When is an—ing in our —ves not complicated?>_

The voice came out distorted by some rumbling static in the background, like the sound of air blowing into a microphone. Barbara brings up several live security feeds on her screen, each viewing activity in different parts of the airport. 

"I can confirm that Nightwing and Red Robin are accounted for since the clone's disappearance. Robin is apparently on the scene as well, along with a welcoming party of armed men, affiliation unknown. What's your ETA?"

_< At the —eed we're goin—at? Twent—tops, fifte ——use our after burn—>_

"By the look of things, you may not have fifteen minutes. You remember the location of the rendezvous point?"

_< Wh——akes you think—won't just grab the —ackage and run?>_

"Because I have all the answers. Answers that you  _need_ ," she warns. Oracle leans forward on her elbows, as if she could glare down at her faceless conspirator through the screen. "Answers I haven't even told the Batman yet."

_<... >_ 

Not waiting for their response, she says, "Let me know when you're enroute," and cuts the connection.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In a corner of Oracle's large workspace, multiple video feeds from various news broadcasts and live security recordings are scattered across the screen, casting ghostly flashes of light on the wall behind her and reflecting off the lenses of her glasses. One broadcast in particular was playing a seated interview between a reporter and a professional of some sort. 

"Joining me today is Doctor Allen Parsman, emeritus professor of sociology at Gotham University. Doctor Parsman, thank you for coming."

"It's my pleasure to be here, Sandy."

"Doctor Parsman, as one of the leading sociologists of our generation, what is your view on the state of affairs currently plaguing the world? There's the alarming rate of missing persons all over the globe, the collapse of ecosystems in protected regions, and just recently, the WHO has announced the previously isolated incidents of Ebola in Bialya is on the verge of an outbreak. Would you say this is some kind of consequence of societal influences, such as global warming and recent political unrest in the Middle East? Can you provide us with some insight into these phenomena and tragic happenings?"

"Now, that's a very broad question with a very complex answer. To put it in layman's terms, you first have to look at society as something like a functional, living organism. Every culture, every country interacts with each other in intricate and very different ways, but each one is important to human society as a whole, much like the organs and organ systems in our bodies. If you can make an analogy between physiology and the context of human actions, then yes, civil war in the Middle East and parts of Eastern Africa have led to major desertification by construction of a literal 'No man's land' in the midst of the conflict. The loss of the world's major basins acting as climate regulators could also be what's caused the sudden reemergence of disease in nearby areas by a virus once thought to have been completely eradicated from existence. And even further, I believe cities along the coast of North America have already been warned of the Atlantic hurricane season being pushed forward several months early. But I digress, since climate change is not my area of expertise—the point I'm trying to get at is, that current events have a slow, but sure affect on society as a whole, and this has lead to a change in the world around us and our perceptions of what is 'normal'. In a society where our children are growing up under controversial concepts such as meta-humans and an existing community in other solar systems, it's understandable that we have come to a point of social unrest between the many social groups that exist across the globe. When we look at the big picture this way, things like social conflict and criminal acts, such as mass kidnappings by a particular group, don't seem so surprising after all."

"Can you expand on that idea? What could be a possible motive for this unknown group to commit these atrocities?"

"Consider this, if you will; the world is in the midst of a crisis, with modern warfare, sudden outbreaks of disease, the threat of natural disasters along the Atlantic Rim and multiple parts of Asia, Europe, and North America. From a social perspective, there are many possible reasons: religious views like the Apocalypse, or astrophysicists' views on solar activity and electromagnetic disturbances traveling past the Earth, even biologists' emphasis on climate change, pollution, and destruction of habitats—each of these may certainly be legitimate explanations for some of these current events, but none of these explain the  _big picture_. What do these occurrences  _mean to humans?_  It means a loss of homes and sense of security, a fear of sickness—of _death_. Even with a league of super heroes to protect us, there is no one in any time or universe that can change the most natural, essential fact of existence. That nothing lasts forever."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And then every character in the history comics defies the logic of Dr. Parsman by dying and magically coming back to life at least three times. Or they somehow stay perpetually-aged in their prime and fight crime in the universe for all eternity. Or, y'know, that's what she says.
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments, as always! This is more of a transition chapter, if anything, but it took me while since I was so unsatisfied with Dick's part (I still am =T).
> 
> But, I dunno, let me know what you guys think. Critiques are very welcome (you can throw tomatoes at me, sucker punch me, anything. Give me your best shot, I can take it, trust me. Just give me a chance to get my football helmet first, please...).
> 
> See you next chapter! =)


	6. Through Ice and Flames, Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Lots of descriptions of weapons and violence ahead in this chapter, especially towards the end, and that's all I'm gonna say...

Jason dropped like a bomb from his hiding spot amongst the tangle of pipes overhead, sending another soldier crumpling to the ground, unconscious after several incapacitating nerve strikes and a shamefully long struggle with a steel cable around the man's neck. 

He stumbled slightly as he stood up from the unconscious body, breathing heavily and shaking from the exertion (not from the fear.  _Anger_  maybe, but Jason would rather stab his own hand before admitting he wasn't in control anymore). He grit his teeth and dug his nails deep into his palms, hoping the pain would steady his hands. The disadvantages to having a child's body as opposed to that of an adult were becoming rather apparent to Jason after struggling to climb up to the eves of the service tunnels several times to avoid the troops and taking the opportunity to jump three lone pursuers in particular.  _Only three. Crap._

To start with, everything about him was ridiculously smaller than what it should be (his little Jay was definitely littl _-er_  than he remembered—but  _Holy hairless, Batman!_  was that beside the point), and that meant weaker grip, weaker punches, shorter reach, and shorter strides. It also meant shorter breath and supple joints. Everything was just so  _floppy_  and  _unbalanced,_  and Jason felt like a rag doll when the soldiers thrashed around, trying to buck him off. 

His skin and flesh were softer too, more easily shredded and bruised without any trace of his familiar calluses. It was a miracle he hadn't broken something yet, although he probably had a fracture or two somewhere for the mottled, bloodied mess that were supposed to be his knees, hands, elbows, head, mouth, and so on and so forth. If he were his proper size, he would probably be able to fit his shrunken forearm between his grown-up fingers and snap it in two like a twig. 

On the plus side, despite looking thoroughly mauled like he'd just wrestled with a grizzly bear and lost, Jason was somehow already bouncing back on his feet, still feeling the pain-killing high of endorphins and itching to just keep  _moving_. He definitely took that advantage in stride and it was kind of a given that if he had the drawbacks, he'd have the perks as well of being a hyperactive pre-adolescent again, so how could complain about that?

But even so, out of all the strange troubles that suddenly dropped into his lap, none of them came close to describing the most disturbing of them all—that Jason had woken up as a clueless, pre-pubescent kid again in  _Wayne manor_  of all places. And as much as that irked him, how much he wanted to kick the unconscious body in front of him and scream his head off in frustration of  _why didn't he fucking realize what was going on sooner—fuck you, Bruce_ , Jason wouldn't let himself stoop to being the rabid, feral animal he probably looked like. Because he wasn't as impartial as he wanted to believe and he already knew how the spiteful, detached way in which he criticized his own shortcomings was only a front to mask the nauseating unease he felt stirring underneath; the possibility that he wasn't—

No.  _Stop_ . He was doing it again.  _Jesus fucking Christ_.

No matter what his damn replacement said could be a  _possibility_ , Jason knew better than anyone else, who he is,  _what_  he is.

And he is  _not_  a  _clone_  of Jason Todd. He  _is_  Jason fucking Todd.

Because only Jason would know the little pointless details of his life, things that a crazy-mad scientist probably wouldn't bother downloading into his brain if he really was some mindless clone sent to screw with humanity, or some diabolical plan like that. Ever since his revelation, he started to remember things like how he can't write in a straight line on paper without tilting it slightly on the table (not like that makes much of a difference because his lines always end up crooked anyways), or how he remembered that random night where The Red Hood had sat with an old, homeless man until sunrise during his first winter back in Gotham. Everyone around the block called him "Bernard", the hobo who used to collect cans and bottles off the streets all around the city, anywhere from Burnley to Grant Park. 

It was the coldest night of the year and Jason was heading back to his safehouse after handling a messy territorial war between the gangs under his control and the current big shot megalomaniac with a grudge against him, Roman Sionis, aka The Black Mask. Not exactly one of his better nights during his early run as The Red Hood, having walked into a trap set by the man himself, escaping with several bullets buried in his Kevlar, and his right calf, and leaving behind a warehouse full of bodies (none of them wearing a black mask, unfortunately). A good night would have been a dead Sionis and making it back in time for the midnight sushi sale at the convenience store around the corner of his building complex. Thus, Jason was a bleeding, bruised, thoroughly-pissed-off mess by the time he trudged back to his side of town at two o'clock in the morning in subzero temperatures. That's when he saw him—old man Bernard, sitting deathly still and upright on an icy bench in the empty park, swathed in ragged scarves and jackets with his shopping cart tipped over on the frozen grass. Jason could barely see the white puff of warm air blowing out of his bearded, blue lips.  His eyes remained hidden in the shadow of his hood so it was hard to tell whether the man was even lucid, but as Jason limped past, he heard him whisper:

_How'z y'ur mum doin', lad? Hope them doctors took good care o' her fer ya._

Jason swore he felt his heart drop into his stomach, sinking heavy like a anchor around his neck. It was impossible that out of all the things old, senile Bernard would remember, he would think of the night he helped a five-year-old kid call an ambulance for his coked-up mother, spasming on the floor of their threadbare apartment. Jason was reading too much into it, it had to be a coincidence. There was no way the old man could even recognize who he was with the full-face helmet, and it had been  _years_  ago afterall...

_Would y' spare this old geezer some friendly company, son? Haven't got much time left, could use some good news..._

Jason wasn't sure what possessed him in that moment. He could have easily walked away and no one, even old Bernard himself, would be the wiser. He was in a bad mood after a bad night and all he wanted was a pack of smokes, two beers, and a bed. But when Jason shifted forward he found himself moving to pick up the dented, wiry cart and taking a seat on the bench, stiffly leaning over his knees with a grunt of pain. It was anyone's guess how long he sat there for, but he knew he hadn't stopped talking the whole time he was there. He talked about pointless topics, the weather, the Gotham Knights' latest sports campaign, even his New Year's resolution (to assassinate Roman Sionis and finally murder a certain psychotic clown of course) until the sun rose sluggishly on the horizon, bringing with it a thick layer of fog. Next to him, old Bernard was dead. 

Jason hadn't bothered burying the body, left it there for someone else to deal with. Why? Well, he hadn't just wasted an entire night out in the cold just to cater to a frozen carcass. He was there for the old homeless man who had spent his precious few quarters on a worthless, helpless little kid who didn't know how to use a pay phone to save his own mom's life. And by morning, all that was left of that man he remembered, sitting on that bench in downtown Gotham, was worm food. Jason would know. He'd experienced death before, after all. 

Jason snorted at that thought. Yeah, let's see a clone know what it's like to experience  _death—_ something that was  _supposed_  to be more an idea than a memory. Because by the time you've felt it, you're already  _sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything_.

So yes, he had to be Jason Todd. Everyone else may think he was a  _fake_ , but as long as he believed he wasn't _—_ as long as he  _knew the truth_ , fuck, he was doing it again _—_  that was all that mattered.

Right?

The taste of blood in his mouth broke his train of thought. He rolled his tongue around the slashed inside of his cheek, probably by his own teeth when the guard managed to elbow him in the face earlier. He took another deep breath, felt the anger rippling underneath his skin, a comforting burn of adrenaline through his veins, and by now his hands had finally stopped trembling as he bent over the body to quickly scavenge for equipment. He hooked another combat knife and a grapple line to the belt harness that he'd lifted off one of his other victims, slung over a shoulder and across his chest. 

The sidearm and the rifle he left alone. He already had two guns stuffed in the back of his jeans, but stealth was the name of the game here and if Jason had any hope of getting out undetected and alive, he would need to play along for now. He was at a definite disadvantage with his small stature carrying over fifty pounds of leather, metal, and carbon fiber equipment on his back—needless to say, Jason wasn't keen on testing those odds just because he couldn't keep the manic urges to solve all his problems with the pull of a trigger in check.  

And just because he was nine years old again, didn't mean he was insane for thinking freely about using a gun, for not thinking like an innocent nine-year-old, for thinking he shouldn't be  _nine years old_ . For knowing how fucked-up in the head he really  _should_  be. The mere thought of how he'd so eagerly soaked in the lies that told him otherwise (and God, even Alfred had lied to him) made his insides twist with disgust. 

But Jason had to prove he was completely in control (to whom, he had no idea. There was no one here, only him and the familiar, angry voices in his head to keep him company afterall), so instead of lashing out at the helpless body in front of him in aggravation, he settled for spitting on the soldier's uniform and continuing on his way. 

Jason traversed through the dim, orange glow of the tunnel's sodium lights, deeper into the luggage transport facilities, using the building maps to check if he was heading in the right direction. After several uneventful minutes he moved towards one of the staircases leading back up to ground level, knelt behind the corner and cocked an ear to listen for the telltale sounds of life through the steady hum of machinery. Hearing nothing else, he quickly shuffled up the steps. 

Jason emerged onto a loading bay of some sort, reinforced containers full of luggage sitting at the terminals of the massive conveyor belt system ready to be ferried through the gate and loaded onto various aircrafts via transport vehicles. The gates themselves were wide open and the conveyors still moving as if the operators had dropped everything and left in a hurry.

Jason let a smug grin briefly stretch across his face. All he had left to do was sneak onto one of the private jets sitting outside on the concrete (not the Replacement's jet, of course) just waiting to be boarded, and he'd be flying free into the sunset—free to catch his bearings and free to finally figure out what the hell is going on with his life. Piece of cake.

Really, Jason should have known better than to expect it to be as easy as that. The moment he stepped onto the bay area, he heard distant shouting and gunfire above the loud drone of the facility. Jason quickly peeled towards the wall and sidled up along the edge of the wide open gate entrance. Shuffling forward, he peeked around the line of parked transport vehicles and what he saw made him curse profusely under his breath. 

A hundred meters out on the airstrip, what looked like a small army of the unknown enemies who had been chasing after Jason were in full assault of three costumed figures _—_ by their colors, they were obviously Nightwing, Red Robin, and Robin _—_  who had somehow formed a physical blockade of containers in front of one of the jets and its fold-out airstairs. The soldiers were taking shelter from the occasional barrage of batarangs and throwing stars behind a long train of container transporters and a number of them were attempting to approach the plane head on under their allies' cover fire. They attacked in waves, but the three vigilantes impressively held their ground by working together to fend off the enemies up close while dodging the stream of bullets that flew in their direction, forcing them to dive for cover and tactfully keeping either of them from crossing the exposed gap between their side and the enemies'. 

If Jason tried to cross the open concrete to make it to another aircraft he'd be spotted in an instant, so that was no longer an option. Neither could he backtrack through the building to the parking lot out front to hotwire a car, since the building might be crawling with SWAT teams by now and the highway was probably barricaded by the police as well. He needed to reassess his escape plan. All parties were currently distracted, maybe he could slip back to the eastern block of the airstrip where the passenger flights were docked? They would be trickier to get off the ground on his own, but it was better than nothing.

Keeping his head down and partially crouched, Jason quickly moved along the edge of the airstrip, scurrying between various service vehicles and cargo containers. With the direction he was headed, he would be passing close to the battlefield, right behind the soldiers' defenses. Not waiting for his rational voice to talk him out of it, he sprinted across the open space in plain sight towards the next vehicle he could use as cover. If he could just keep going for several more yards unnoticed—

One of the soldiers suddenly tossed a grenade into the air and Jason froze, watching from behind in mute horror as it arced towards the barricade. Red Robin leapt from out of nowhere to intercept the bomb, and he heard someone shout as he swatted it like a baseball out to the side where it exploded only a split second after in a violent display of fire and resounding  _ka-BANG!_   The aftershock threw him through the air and he hit the ground  _hard_. 

Jason stood there in shock, everything seeming to move in slow motion as the whole scene erupted all at once. The soldiers were leaping out from behind their cover, rifles aimed at the downed vigilante, Nightwing and Robin were rushing to their brother's aid, there was suddenly an opening on the left side that led straight to the passenger terminals—

And Jason needed to act  _now_. 

 

* * *

 

_Ow_. 

That was the first thought that Tim acknowledged when he came to. That, and the feeling of grit and tarmac solidly pillowing his face. 

It took him a moment to reorient his thoughts and figure out what was going on, when everything snapped into place with a jerk.  _Jason! Where—_

He tried to lift his head and,  _holy fuck, shouldn't have done that_ . His head was heavier than a fifty-pound kettle bell, throbbing with the need to split in half any second now, and his shoulder was sticking out at an awkward angle, probably dislocated. But still, he had to,  _needed to_  get up, because Jason was  _right there_ —he'd spotted him running between the vehicles behind the enemies' position when he'd leapt over the barricade to deflect the grenade and Tim had  _hesitated._  He couldn't bring himself to swing the grenade back at enemy lines, even if his calculations told him no one would be killed by his clever counter-move, because Jason was there and his conscience was firing every scenario at him involving Jason and explosives and how everything could go horribly wrong because of his decision. 

It only took an instant—Tim had hesitated, the grenade got too close—and now he was probably spilling his guts out on the pavement, his limbs bloody stumps, and he was most likely going into shock right now. 

_Fuck my life. I need a vacation after this_. 

He had crossed paths with both Nightwing and Robin at his jet before he'd even had a chance to start searching it for his runaway charge (and how they knew which Wayne jet of the dozen or so present was  _supposed_  to be  _discretely_ his, didn't surprise him in the least), and after a brief sibling scuffle between them, they were suddenly being ambushed by a whole platoon of soldiers. Between that and making an amateur mistake in a life-or-death situation with an armed explosive, Tim's contingent getaway plan had gotten completely out of hand by this point. 

_Bang!_

Tim internally flinched. That was probably the sound of someone shooting him in the back and he must be dying and hallucinating now, because why the hell would  _Damian_  be the one picking him up and dragging him off to safety?

Well. At least he was wrong about his arms, legs and intestines. The way he was half slouching on the shorter boy, half fumbling forward, meant that he could calmly assume all extensions of his body and innards were where they should be. Or else he wouldn't be moving at all. 

" _Wake up, Drake!"_  Robin hissed loudly in his ear and gave a none-too-gentle shake that had Tim seeing double of that familiar, perpetually scowling face. "You are a pathetic excuse for a human being and I refuse to be in your debt because of your dramatic attempt at heroics."

Coming from Damian, that was practically glowing praise. "You're welcome, brat," he slurred in reply.

"- _Tt_ -" Damian ignored his sarcasm and dumped him unceremoniously against the wheel of a service truck when they had put a satisfying distance between them and the ensuing fight. Nightwing was flipping wildly through the throng of soldiers, who seemed to be chasing after a gun-wielding figure climbing atop the luggage containers who looked somewhat like—

Shit. It was  _Jason_. 

That was when Tim noticed the bleeding and very dead soldier lying sprawled on the ground nearby. Well crap, did the little clone of Jason Todd just shoot an enemy for  _him?_

Having relieved himself of Red Robin's hindering weight on his shoulders, Damian was already sprinting back into the fray, but before Tim could even think about trying to get back on his feet he heard the muffled thrumming of propellers in the air. It couldn't be a civilian plane—the control towers were probably redirecting flights to other airports along the coast and the sound was too quiet, like the rumble of wind on a stormy day. That could only mean—

Tim's eyes widened in realization and he almost gave himself whiplash on top of his splitting headache when he jerked his gaze upwards at the sky above the Wayne jet, just in time to see how close the aircraft had snuck up on them as it hovered into view. 

_A Black Hawk._  Actually, make that  _five_  Black Hawks, if those four black dots on the horizon were exactly what he thought they were. 

And suddenly there was a gigantic _—_ you gotta be  _shitting_  me _—_ _rocket launcher_  sticking out of the open hatch aimed right in their direction. Thus, Tim did the logical thing any non-meta superhero would do in this situation. He screamed.

" _EVERYONE GET DOWN! RPG—!_ "

There was a sucking, crackling sound and in the next second—KA _BOOOOM!_ —Tim was being thrown through the air— _again—_ as his private jet erupted like a volcano in a roaring sea of flames, wreckage, and black smoke, all up-close-and-personal. Every  _thing_ , every  _one_  nearby was sent catapulting over the concrete, pitched head over heels in every direction and it was a long moment before Tim could steady himself and the world around him enough to assess the damage.

Heat rolled over the pavement in boiling waves, his ears were buzzing with static and through the haze, Tim watched as the helicopter landed in their midst. A cloaked figure, holding the still-smoking, anti-tank weapon, hopped smoothly to the ground and walked casually through the chaos he created as if it were a casual stroll through the park. Tim tensed when the man halted in his tracks right next to his singed, ragged form. He wore a monstrous, ceremonial skeletal mask with beaded tassels over his entire head, an eerie shade of green with red eyes and all sharp edges, especially the fangs and two curved horns. Tim tensed as the man leaned over him, the flames of the wreckage throwing his crooked shadow across the young vigilante's body.

The ringing in Tim's ears had dampened by now, but he almost wished they hadn't when the man chuckled cordially and spoke.

"I would apologize for ruining your jet, Timothy, if I weren't so highly amused by the fact that I've destroyed it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, Tim, I know. That son of a b** will pay for blowing up your precious airplane. Eventually.
> 
> Whelp, my brain is mush right now after catching writer's block and pushing through this chapter, so apologies for any editing/context mistakes I may have missed. I literally cannot look anymore at my writing without going cross-eyed @.@ I may come back and touch this up a little bit more in the future, but for now I have unfortunately reached my brain capacity for the week and will have to hibernate a little to re-energize.
> 
> Thanks for reading and all the comments, as always! I really do appreciate the constructive criticisms if you have any, they help me strive to improve myself as a writer overall.
> 
> On a side note, high fives to anyone who recognizes the quote I slipped in this chapter. (Hint: It's from a rather well-known poem written by a famous playwright).
> 
> See you all next chapter =)


	7. A Demon In My View

" _Ra's_."

"Detective."

With both parties acknowledged, Red Robin and The Demon's Head regarded each other, Tim with a half snarl on his face and Ra's with the vicious, frozen glare of his mask looming over him (a literal  _head_  of a demon snarling right back at him). Besides the familiar emerald green, embellished cloak, his minimalist tunic and martial appearance, the primitive mask that covered his entire head was sorely misplaced. Tim pondered the significance of it and filed that tidbit of information away in the back of his mind. 

"I should've known— _hng_ ," Tim hissed through clenched teeth as he managed to prop himself up on his elbows and spat a glob of blood off to the side to clear his throat. "The Ebola outbreak, the civil unrest—it has  _The Demon_  and  _League of Shadows_  written all over it. But clones and senseless habitat destruction? You're an Eco-terrorist, Ra's, not some apocalyptic, power-hungry villain out to take over the world."

Ra's crossed his arms over his chest, fingers brushing over the sharpened canines of his mask in thought. "Perhaps. And perhaps you simply don't understand my objectives as well as you assumed, Timothy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a fugitive to collect."

Stepping right over Tim's body, Ra's continued strolling through the burning wreckage as the four other helicopters landed and his henchman fanned across the area, pushing aside junked vehicles and rubble to retrieve their injured allies. From where he was sprawled over the broken-off arm of an aerial work platform, Damian stirred to consciousness.  _Grandfather?_  was the first thought he acknowledged as he groggily watched Ra's approach the scattered train of container transport carts where Jason had been luring the soldiers on a wild goose chase.

Ra's kicked and pushed aside several suitcases from the heap of luggage that had spilled onto the concrete to reveal Nightwing's form curled protectively around another body, his own still half buried under the heavy pile and the overturned container. Ra's reached down and callously tugged the clone out of the other man's grasp.

" _Don't_ ," Dick groaned weakly, trying to keep his hold over Jason, but Ra's was already yanking the boy away, holding him up by the front of his sweater.

"It appears there's been a change of plans," Ra's drawls as Jason stirs, struggling under the suffocating constriction of his clothes. "I may still have a use for you yet."

Tossing the squirming boy into the strong-arm hold of one of his subordinates, Ra's stalks back towards the waiting helicopters, rotors still spinning in preparation to lift off. As they board the helicopter, Jason snapped out of his stupor enough to start swearing up a storm while struggling violently in the soldier's grasp, biting and kicking whatever he could reach. The soldier staggered trying to wrestle the boy back into a manageable, unconscious burden, before Ra's stepped back from the hatch and promptly backhanded the clone without any restraint.

The Demon's Head gripped the boy's jaw painfully and forced his gaze up at him. "You should be grateful I deemed you worthy enough for this opportunity," he snarled.  "I had half a mind to savor in this achievement on my own. But alas, the outcome would have been much less satisfactory."

"What the—fuck are you— _talking about?_  Crazy— _sonovabitch,_ " Jason stuttered through clenched teeth, trying to pull away from the piercing fingers digging into his bruised and bleeding face. 

" _Be grateful_. I won't tolerate such crude behavior on my hospitality." Having delivered his warning, Ra's roughly shoved his face aside and the rest of the troops filed into the helicopters. 

Tim, Damian, and Dick could only watch helplessly as the hovercrafts lifted up into the darkened Gotham sky one by one, lighted from below by the violent bonfire of the plane and the airstrip floodlights. Broken and bruised, there was nothing they could do to stop them from escaping, but they still had one move left up their sleeves—Tim needed to act before they were too far out of range—

As Tim struggled to reach for something in his belt, the night sky suddenly burst into a shower of fire and light, the tail-end of one of the Black Hawks exploding before reaching the height of its ascent. All eyes on the scene zeroed in on the source of the attack. A comet—or what appeared to be a comet—blazing a trail through the sky in their direction, and was that a  _person_  attached to the comet?

Dick was the first one to recognize the cavalry.  _Kory!_  he exclaimed, but his head was still too muddled to form the name in his mouth. And the red-clad, baseball cap-wearing archer hanging from Starfire's arms was definitely Roy Harper. 

Through the noise of the burning aircrafts and the wind in his ears, Roy shouted, "Careful, Kitten! We wanna avoid frying the baby Jaybird. Here, I got this." Arsenal raises his bow and shoots several minor explosive arrows amidst the helicopters, causing them to break formation. Two arrows exploded on impact with the burning helicopter's propeller, sending an extinguishing, foaming substance over the shell as it dropped out of the sky, cushioning its crash-landing while effectively trapping its occupants inside. 

Ra's cursed under his breath and quickly reached for the radio. " _Aim for their allies. Do not attempt to shoot down the alien. Prioritize our retreat,"_  he ordered. Immediately, the remaining helicopters turned about and several RPG's are fired off in different directions: One at the flock of civilians on the other side of the airport, one at the busy freeway, and one at the defenseless Bats on the airstrip. 

"Oh  _crap_." Roy immediately fired off several EMP arrows in succession, sending a pulse through the air to temporarily nullify their firearms and communications, thus preventing any further explosives from being launched. The helicopters, however, remained unaffected, suggesting the vehicles had some top quality hardware and shielding installed.

Another shout from Roy drew Kory's attention to the closest hostile where several men were aiming crossbows in their direction. Dodging through the rain of enemy arrows, Kory zipped through the air close enough to hurl Roy right at the open cockpit while she sped off after the launched rockets. 

An explosion lit up the sky and rocked the hovering aircrafts, signaling the death of one projectile as Roy engaged the soldiers in an all-out brawl. Another rocket followed soon after as, on the helicopter next to the one currently under assault, Ra's grabbed Jason by the throat, wrenching him from his subordinate's hold and hanging him precariously out the open hatch. 

"It seems I must cut my losses for today," Ra's growled indignantly as Jason choked and gripped the wrist of the hand cutting off his airway. His mask suddenly leaned in threateningly close to the boy's face, a flash and distant rumble framing The Demon's sharp features, accenting the glowing red eyes as the last explosive was destroyed. And then, the man whispered vehemently for Jason's ears only:

"Find me if you still want revenge."

The boy's eyes widened in shock, and with that, Ra's threw him out of the helicopter. It was only a split second after that Roy was diving after him, calling out wildly in a panic, but Jason didn't catch any of it. He hurtled towards the earth like a rag doll in the wind, with the only thing running through his mind— _that_  man _. Holy fucking shit—_

Free-falling like a dart, Roy caught up to Jason with less than thirty stories left between them and a gruesome collision with the solid ground. Grabbing Jason with one arm, he used his teeth to draw his bow and shot off an arrow with a safety line that was quickly caught by Koriand'r. The line went taught with a jerk only several meters over the burning wreckage on the concrete and Roy let out a breath as Kory reeled them in. 

" _Phew_. Almost burnt my tush back there. Talk about  _out of the frying pan_ , but we only need one  _hot_ red-head around these parts. Right, Princess?" Roy cocked his head back, smiling up at the red-headed Tamaranean beauty. 

"So adorable," is all Kory hummed in amusement and Roy wasn't sure if she meant him or the mini-me Jason he was clutching at his side. The alien princess effortlessly hauled Roy up by his harness and declared offhandedly, "By the way Roy, the enemy is escaping. Should we pursue?"

Roy scoured the skies to see the Black Hawks disappearing into the dark horizon under a smokescreen cover. "Hm, I would say 'No' since it would be another hassle on our plates and we've got what we came for anyways. But..." he scratches his chin with his free hand in thought, then grins down at the boy in his arms. "Why don't we ask our fearless, little leader?" 

Jason snarled in annoyance. "Shut up, Roy."

Roy laughed heartily, wiping nonexistent tears from his eyes. "Oh! So you  _do_  know me! Well, that's a relief. Now I don't have explain why the sexy, alien princess with the luscious, green eyes is trying to cuddle you like a kitten."

Kory shifted Roy to hold his harness in one hand and smiled fondly as she wrapped a grumbling Jason up into the crook of her other arm. She turned back to regard the destruction strewn across the airstrip, including the downed helicopter. "What about the enemies we apprehended in that aircraft?" she nodded at the scene below them, "We may be able to interrogate them for more information."

Both Jason and Roy looked down on the tarmac. Below them, Robin and Red Robin had recovered their bearings enough to help free Nightwing from the mountain of luggage, although all three hadn't escaped without injury. With Nightwing limping free from his constraints, the three vigilantes looked up at them with solemn regard. 

"... Let them handle it," Jason said. "We should get out of here."

Kory didn't reply, but silently circled around to take their leave. Her senses lingered on Nightwing long after The Outlaws had left the airstrip behind them. Little did she know that Dick's thoughts lingered morosely on her the exact same way. 

Tim tentatively placed a hand on his brother's shoulder to no response. "Dick... you okay?" he warily asked. 

When Dick finally replied, his voice was distant. "Yeah... Yeah, I'm fine." There was movement on the airstrip behind them as the GCPD special response team arrived on the scene. Nightwing tore his eyes away from the clouded night sky, now reddening with the coming of dawn. "Come on, you two. We've got work to do." He pulls his commlink out of his ear to check it for damage, then stalks off with a slight limp, most likely reporting to Oracle and Batman.

Red Robin slumps off after him, taking a subtle glance at the GPS tracker in his hand beneath his cape, a solid, blinking red dot slowly moving across the screen. 

Robin is the only one who glanced back at the extensive havoc and debris strewn across the airstrip. The destroyed aircraft was burning like a second sun, a fumarole spewing up black fumes of smoke in a billowing pillar, as fire fighters converged on the monstrous flames with water pumps and extinguishers. He frowned suspiciously in thought. 

_Grandfather_. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Humans are regarded as the most intelligent species on Earth.

With the highest brain-mass-to-body-mass ratio of any animal on the planet, it's a scientific fact that humans were evolved to maximize the use of their conceptual, cognitive, and emotional abilities. Over thousands of years, humans spread across the world, an infestation that used their mental acuity to populate every nook and cranny of the world you can imagine, to develop tools and technologies to simplify their lives, build their own exclusive cultures and interconnected societies, absorb other living creatures and plants into their system; and eventually, they even defied the laws that governed the nature of things. As new frontiers were found and pushed further, new corners of their world explored and their horizons were expanded to the stars, people realized that they weren't the only ones in the universe who pushed the limits of existence. They discovered a wealth of knowledge out there, even more than the Earth itself had to offer. Or so they thought.

For all of humanity's amazing achievements, for every mystery revealed and myth proven truth or lie, there were always several more questions left unanswered, some dark void of reality that existed beyond normal comprehension.

The existence of the Lazarus Pits was one of those unresolved questions.

Jason Todd's resurrection was another—and probably always will be.

As intelligent as Barbara was, she didn't dare think herself so divine as her alter-ego, Oracle, to entertain the delusion that she could unravel the mystery of how a murdered boy was brought back to life, or why Talia al Ghul felt compelled to heal the resurrected boy's trauma through the sinister powers of the Pit.

Did the boy himself know the truth? None of them had ever asked, or if one of them did, Barbara was fairly certain the story was something they wouldn't be sharing with anyone anytime soon, maybe never. That was how things usually ran in this secretive operation they called a  _'family'_.

And to be honest, whether Barbara knew the truth or not really didn't matter to her in the long run. Because Barbara Gordon was a particularly sharp human being with a photographic memory, and the Jason she remembered—the honest street punk with a vulgar attitude, who rode his emotions like a roller coaster through the good and the bad— _that_  Jason, she could believe would grow up to become the vengeful, angry man who crawled out of the Pit, insane or not.

Of course, that wasn't to say any of it was his fault to begin with—Barbara empathized with his backstory, the harsh life he lived, the premises of his  _death_  ( _especially_  his death...), and she wasn't so cold and apathetic as to ignore the adversities he overcame prior to his fifteenth year of age—but in the end, his mistakes and his choices were simply a fact that Barbara accepted, an answer to at least one of the questions that made up who Jason was now.

Barbara stood by her answer to this day. That Jason never should have been Robin.

She watched the Outlaws approach in the distance, dropping out of the sky and touching down on the abandoned beach on the mainland across the waters of Gotham Harbour with the endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean before them; she watched as the clone planted his feet on the sand with all the outspoken intimidation of a hotshot troublemaker; and she was convinced that after all this time, she was still in the right. 

Beside her, Stephanie Brown, the current holder of the Batgirl mantel and Barbara's protégé, shifted her weight ever so slightly, ready to jump in if need be and Barbara couldn't help but feel a little insulted despite the girl's well-meaning intentions. The sand made traversing the area in her wheelchair rather difficult (which was the whole point of the location in the first place. No one would be looking this way for a crippled woman who spends her free time on a computer hacking the National Security Archive and various other international servers around the world), but Barbara was a far cry from a damsel in distress, which Stephanie was well aware of. On the other hand, she could understand the younger girl's trepidation.

The Jason Todd she knew was dead, a memorial gathering dust in a corner of the Batman's basement, mourned only by the people who claimed to know him best. The Jason Todd that came back was an unknown entity, and the existence of this  _boy_  only made things more difficult, for Stephanie especially, being the Robin whom she was always compared to for her short tenure in the cape and costume, for making the same mistakes (an impulsive brand of justice, arrogance, and similar family roots like a permanent black mark on her record, and of course, getting herself _killed_ ). But she knew better now, had grown into a hero of her own right, worked hard to earn the respect of her peers (a work in progress, but still, progress was progress and deserved some recognition), otherwise Barbara wouldn't have ever considered working with the young vigilante in the first place. And that was the difference between Stephanie and Jason—Jason had never learned his lesson.

The boy in question walked forward with his teammates trailing behind. He came to a stop several feet away, leaving a generous gap between them; close enough to acknowledge, but far enough to comfortably parry with his left foot forward should Stephanie choose to attack. He was playing on the side of caution and Barbara had to give him credit for that.

"I assume your teammates have briefed you on the situation?" she spoke first, skipping on pleasantries after seeing the distrust in his eyes. One eyelid was swelling into a ugly shade of purple and there was dried blood and not-so-dried blood staining his clothes, his skin. He was probably hurting all over and wouldn't appreciate any  _beating around the bush_ , so to speak.

"Yeah, they did, only as much as they knew," he replied airily, a touch of accusation in his tone. "You're the one holding all the cards, Gordon. What do you want?"

Barbara brought up her wheelchair's built-in holographic computer screen. "I'm not here to tell you what you want to hear, Jason. I'm here to tell you the truth, whether Bruce or you can accept it or not. The only thing I ask in exchange, is that you and your team help me solve this case—help us stop The Demon and whatever endgame he has planned for the world."

"You better not be telling me that the almighty Oracle doesn't know that  _that guy_  was  _not_  Ra's al Ghul."

"And how would you know that?"

"Because I heard his fucking  _voice_  and that was  _not him_."

" _The Demon_  and  _The League of Assassins_  only answer to Ra's al Ghul. They would know firsthand if that man was an impostor."

"Well,  _I_  know firsthand that  _The League of Assassins_  is one royally fucked-up club of screwballs still living in the dark ages."

"You're a clone of Jason Todd. You wouldn't know that—"

" _Shut up_."

"—Jason was killed by Ra's al Ghul over half a year ago under unknown circumstances—"

" _I SAID SHUT UP!_ "

Barbara regarded him composedly as he glared at her with wild eyes, chest heaving from his outburst. When it looked like he had calmed himself enough to listen again, she continued, punching in some commands into her computer. "I'll send an encrypted report of my investigation to your inbox. You can read it whenever you're ready."

"Your research is flawed," he breathed.

"Think what you will. Batman's information and my own are all we have to go by for now since Ra's was able to thoroughly cover up his tracks for an extended amount of time, and that's worrisome enough as it is. He already has a head start in whatever he has planned with those clones he's been shipping all over the world and we need to find out where he's currently operating, rescue any survivors, then shut him down the old-fashioned way."

"Don't you have other pawns to play with, to do your dirty work for you?" he challenged. "What makes you think I give a rat's ass about any this? Who cares if the world gets screwed over by this pit-crazed maniac?"

"The real Jason Todd I know  _would_  care," was Barbara's immediate reply. And after a moment's hesitation, she added more quietly, "... He cared  _too much_. They say that the kindest people are the most resilient, but when they break, they fall the  _hardest_. That was why he made so many mistakes, why he died. That was why he was so  _angry_. And it's why he's not with us anymore."

Jason froze with his mouth slack, his counter argument caught in his throat. Barbara locked eyes with him and a part of herself slipped out from behind the stern mask of The Oracle, a hint of sadness when she said, "But  _you_  are."

He couldn't reply to that. An awkward silence stretched between them for a moment, flashes of teasing, disapproval and camaraderie from times long past flitting through Jason's head like a video reel. As Batgirl, Barbara had accepted him as Dick's successor, but that didn't mean she had ever been his biggest fan (that spot in her heart was— and  _always will be_ —reserved for the original Boy Wonder). He never blamed her for that. Especially since, looking back, she was the  _only one_. Not Bruce with his stunted, awkward attempts at child-rearing and militaristic training to always make him better; not Dick, who was too busy doing his own work with his other teenage pals; not even Alfred, who could only love him in the way a responsible caretaker could. Barbara was the only one who had  _understood_ him and Jason felt like such an idiot for not realizing something as important as that until now. It could have made all the difference back then.  _It could have, but it didn't._

Jason felt like screaming, ripping his hair out, punching his fists into the sand until his knuckles were as bloody as his face, and he didn't realize he was  _actually doing it_  until strong hands were grasping his wrists and he was being pulled back into Kory's warm embrace as they knelt on the beach. Stephanie had completely dropped her guard by this point, staring wide-eyed at the boy going through an identity crisis and having a nervous breakdown right before her eyes. Barbara glanced at the horizon over the Atlantic where rays of sunlight were streaking across the sky and she mentally noted that they didn't have much time left.

Roy knelt next to his two friends and combed his fingers through Jason's matted hair. His eyes were set with determination when he turned to Oracle. "If baby-Jay says he's the real deal, I believe him."

"And what if you're wrong?"

"It wouldn't matter to us either way. Jason's our friend, no matter what shape or size he comes in," Roy states unwaveringly. "Besides, how can you be so sure that  _you're_   _right_  when you said it yourself, that you don't know everything the Ghoul guy has been planning up 'til now?"

"That's what I'd like you to help me find out."

"And prove you wrong while we're at it. Whaddya say, Jaybird? Should we offer our quality services to the bossy lady?"

Jason slowly rose to his feet, Kory's arms hovering around him worriedly but letting him stand unsteadily by his own strength. When he raised his head to look Barbara in the eye again, she was surprised to see no tears, not even the redness that came from dried tear streaks. There was only the tenacity of a boy whom Barbara thought she would never meet again. Even after all the mental and physical abuse he'd been through so far, from life to death, to life again and _whatever the fuck was going on right now_ , Jason had already sworn not to regret anything else from the life he'd never had. Thus, he didn't cry and he left that pie in the sky exactly where he'd left it, where it could fade away with the night and the coming of dawn. It was nothing but air and clouds up there anyways.

He wiped the dried blood off the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, causing the split in his lip to start bleeding anew.

"Where do we start?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I finished this chapter way faster than I thought! *praise me, praise me!* =D
> 
> You can look at this chapter as a sort of "end of part I", since now that I've reached this milestone at point A, I have absolutely no idea how I'm gonna get to point B in my head (but I swear that it will happen!). As with Dick in previous chapters, I'm not sure how I feel about Barbara, or even the disgusting mess of relationships/friendships I wrote/hinted at here (you guys remember I'm not the best with canon and character history, right?). Yeeeah *sigh* =(
> 
> Anywho, let me know what you guys think. Critiques, tomatoes, and knowledge-food for my noggin are welcome as always. Tomatoes definitely, since I've been craving bolognese pasta for a while now...
> 
> PS: the chapter title is a line from a poem written by a famous american poet. Fist bumps to whoever can name the writer and which poem.
> 
> See you all next chapter!


	8. Reverie

 

At the upper limits of the Earth's atmosphere, floating in orbit higher than any satellite possibly could, the largest superhero headquarters in the world overlooked the blue planet which billions of animals, humans, meta-humans, and a handful of aliens called home. This stronghold boasted the best defenses and weaponry on this side of the universe, built to repel even Superman himself. Something so incredibly impervious and destructively powered was, of course, the center of much controversy among civilians and political groups down on Earth.

_Who do they think they are, some kind of Gods?_

_It's only thanks to them that we've been saved so many times from criminals and threats from outer space._

_They say it's for the Earth's protection, but they're just trying to control us all!_

_The Justice League follows a code. They respect our laws and our system. Who cares if they have a clubhouse orbiting around the Earth?_

_Vigilantism itself breaks the rules of our society! If everyone went around wearing tights and capes, do we automatically give them free reign to do whatever they please? It's narcissism at its finest!_

_They're the biggest hypocrites of them all. They tell_  us  _to agree to demilitarization, and yet they have a giant laser cannon floating above our heads that can wipe us out with the press of a button!_

And so the ongoing debate goes. Many members of the Justice League of America strongly advocated the purpose of an organization for upholding justice, one without bias and existing outside the influence of media and politics. Some of the newer, younger heroes were in favor of the demilitarization movement; others simply didn't care. After all, it wasn't like anyone could forcibly tow the Watchtower off its property in the sky like your average  _Volkswagen_ , right?

No matter how much the senior members of the League tried to mediate the internal tensions between their allies, it became rather obvious that no organization, no matter how detached and self-governing it was, could exist without its own political problems. And no one knew that better than the man often found at the center of such superhero controversy—the Batman. 

From his pre-League days recruiting the then-eight-year-old Robin as a partner in his war on crime, to the countermeasures he'd created against his own allies within the JLA, Batman certainly walked through a gray area of ethical principles that was a tad darker than most good people were comfortable to even approach. Today's topic for dispute was no different.

"He's willingly withholding crucial information from the League—information we could have used to put down the mastermind behind this whole shebang already, instead of playing catch with the newsies and chasing  _hurricanes_  all around the world like my mother's bull terrier let loose in her apartment."

All those present around the conference table swiveled their eyes and raised an eyebrow in Green Lantern, Hal Jordan's direction.

"What? I'm not a big fan of pets." Hal shrugged.

"Green Lantern has a point," Wonder Woman, the Amazonian princess, spoke up. "This isn't the first time Batman has done this, and it certainly won't be the last. Hera knows we should not have tolerated such questionable actions for all this time."

There was a general murmur of agreement all across the table. The Scarlet Speedster known as The Flash raised his hand enthusiastically before anyone else could throw their opinions into the mix. 

"I'm sure everyone here agrees with you on that, Princess," Barry said, "But I'm also sure we all know that Batman doesn't do anything without a  _reason_. I mean, I've already lost track of how many times he's saved our lives in the past. Think about it."

And they did. The murmuring elevated up a notch with more earnestness. For all of Batman's stubbornness, paranoia and radical mistrust of every factor not under his control, people are often quick to remember that there's a reason why he was one of the founding members of the Justice League in the first place. Despite being a non-meta-human, he was considered one of the top contenders on the list of  _"Heroes you do not want to mess with,"_  and for a good reason. He was more than capable of holding his own in a fight against superpowered beings and no one doubted his physical and mental prowess in any situation. Oh, and he built the goddamn  _space station_  they were currently having their very important League meeting in, by the way. Sure, all the founder members had helped to put the whole thing together—but  _The Batman_  had drawn the blueprints; Batman had provided the materials, funded the  _entire project_ ; he even programmed the operating system for every inch of tech that the JLA now used. 

So yeah, maybe they should give the man the benefit of the doubt (or they might regret it in the near future). 

A loud  _slap_  on the table hushed the convocation of heroes in an instant. "I always wanted to try that," Shazam chuckled through the lull in conversation, his hands splayed out on the flat top in front of him. 

"Um... Thank you, Shazam," Black Canary nodded at her colleague sitting next to her. She cleared her throat, "As I was trying to say, the man under scrutiny is sitting  _right here._  We can argue over this all we want, but right now I believe the current state of affairs takes precedence over the Batman's questionable practices. If Batman is willing to work with us moving forward, then we should put aside this matter for another day for the sake of the innocent people who are counting on us."

"Well said, sweetheart," her boyfriend, Green Arrow, remarked on her other side as he lounged back in the comfy, high-backed chair. She ground the sharp heel of her boot into his foot to make him sit up straight and pay more attention to the meeting (although she could agree with him that the silly bickering around the table was getting them nowhere).

Wonder Woman turned her gaze pointedly on Batman. "It's your call, Batman. Do you have anything to share with us?" she challenged.

The man in question sat unperturbed in his seat by all the slander and accusations thrown in his direction. Wonder Woman glared at him from across the other side of the table, daring him to even try and discard the issue. At the table's head, Superman abruptly stood. 

"That's enough, Diana," he said. "As Black Canary said, we need to put aside our differences for now if we hope to save the world before it's too late. We're spread thin enough as is, with preparations for the intergalactic congress on our plates and the streak of natural disasters currently plaguing the Earth."

"Speaking of intergalactic powwows," Green Arrow interjected, "Shouldn't our representatives already be in transit? I mean, Green Lantern, Superman, Batman, J'onn, Wonder Woman..."

Superman replied, "I understand we don't have much time left, but with the recent events on Earth, we deemed it necessary to put our departure on hold—"

" _You_  deemed it necessary. I'm not holding my breath."

Everyone present startled slightly at the deep rasp of Batman's voice, his first words since the entire meeting had started. Having stolen the attention of the congregated heroes, Batman proceeded to input a string of commands into the terminal in front of him, causing a hologram of scrolling information to appear on the screen in the center of the vast, oval table.

"This is everything there is to know about the current weather patterns over the world oceans and seismic activity along the Pacific Rim in Japan, the Philippines, the Americas, and so forth," Batman explained. "I followed a paper trail of oil rigs that have been constructed within the past year within range of the major fault lines here," several red dots appeared on a holographic world map, marking a path along the continental coastlines. "The NOAA have found samples of a weather modification polymer off the shores of parched regions, in particular in Southwest Asia and the Middle East where the recent political insurgence and Ebola outbreaks have been occurring."

Green Lantern waved his hands impatiently, "All right, I get it. You're telling us that someone or some organization is manipulating all these happenings and this is  _not_  some kind of  _'End of the World_ ' mojo we're dealing with here. So now we know how to fix Mother Nature—but you still haven't told us  _who the hell_  is behind all of this."

Batman leveled the piercing gaze of his white lenses on Hal Jordan, who returned the stare unflinchingly (although he would never admit that he felt frozen to his seat in that moment). The Dark Knight silently typed in another sequence of keys and another report popped up on the screen. 

"The kidnapping ring has been using decommissioned freighters to ship their hostages to an untraceable location in the Northern Hemisphere. However, I was able to extrapolate the travel data of several affiliated ships up to a certain geographic location and I've narrowed down a possible headquarters to this region here," a red area was highlighted on the map. "Northeast Siberia and the Kamchatka Peninsula."

The meeting hall burst into a frenzy all at once, every hero talking over each other trying to put in their two cents and call their allies to action.

"We should organize and send out a vanguard immediately."

"What about the oil rigs? We need several more teams investigating them, as well as the source of the polymer."

"Our metas should continue with the disaster intervention and keeping the Mid-East revolutionaries and the government at a ceasefire."

Throughout the sudden volley of free discussion, Batman's presence was forgotten for the moment in light of the revelations he'd placed on the table. He wordlessly stood up from his seat and started stalking towards the exit, two fingers pressed to the commlink in his cowl as he listened to a voice on the other end of the line ("Continue with the interrogation, Nightwing. Investigate the lead and report to Oracle if you don't hear from me within the next forty-eight hours"). Before he could step out of the room, Superman dropped down in front of him to block his way.

" _Move_."

Superman ignored the command. "Bruce, you don't need to handle this on your own—"

"Don't you have an alien council to address on the other side of the universe,  _Superman?_ "

"Are you really going to brush me off like this? After all we've been through? This isn't just your problem—"

"It  _is_  my  _problem_."

"Where is Jason, Bruce?"

"Jason has nothing to do with—"

"Where is  _your son?_ "

Bruce paused and it was a shocking milestone for Clark to find that for once, The Batman was  _speechless_. Bewildered by his small victory, the Kryptonian stood speechless himself, nearly considering apologizing for bringing up the sore topic, but there was no time to soak in the moment as Batman was already striding past him into the main hall of the Watchtower.

Superman warily followed after him. "... Bruce?" he called out.

The man didn't answer, his mind already miles away in another time, another place, as he mechanically went through the motions to activate the teleporter. The words echoed in the back of head. 

_Where is your son?_

It was an innocent remark, one he had been expecting. But, that didn't make the words hurt any less. The man was an ambassador from the American consulate in Ethiopia, aware of Bruce Wayne and his adopted son's voyage to the remote country in search of Jason's biological mother. At the time, Bruce had to make the first step and put his cover story into motion while steeling his emotions, holding back the rage, the bottomless anguish, but not the  _truth_ . Even after all these years, the memories—the Joker, the explosion, driving for miles, carrying the boy's body to a safe location, grieving in silence, in  _shock_ , taking another twenty-four hours to clutch his stiff, cold hand, change his clothes and accept reality—the monument in his chest where that truth was etched was still fresh, still so very  _deep_. 

And it was the first time Bruce had solidified the truth in words. 

_He's dead._

With the coordinates set, the teleporter activated and Batman stepped onto the platform with Superman following close behind. He didn't try to stop the other man from tagging along, only resigned himself to the inevitable partner he'd acquired for the trip. Bruce closed his eyes behind the cowl, thinking back to a simpler time, a similar question.

_Where is your son?_

The question had caught him off guard while Bruce was playing up his happy-go-lucky, rich boy persona at the Carroll family matriarch's seventieth birthday celebration at the R. H. Kane building downtown, many years ago. It had taken a moment for his brain to process that the elderly madam was talking to  _him_  before he realized it.

Oh.  _His_  son. Because Dick was never anything less than one, but then he had always thought the same of Tim when he'd squirmed his way into their lives, and now Damian, the son he'd never known even existed until he was suddenly on their doorstep. But back then, the public saw things differently and Tim, Damian, and even his daughter, weren't in the picture yet; Dick was Bruce's ward and  _not a son_ , while Jason was the first  _something-other-than-a-ward_  that had the socialites tittering with morbid fascination at the uncouth tramp who'd somehow become an heir to the Wayne family fortune practically over night. It was a classic rags-to-riches fairy tale come true.

Bruce couldn't have cared less what Gotham's elite had to say on his recent adoption of the boy, and to be honest, he was more distracted by his distaste for the excessively flamboyant party he had no choice but to attend (an obvious show of money and power and a chance to set him up with the madam Carroll's daughter who'd divorced out of her most recent beau marriage). But, the woman's brusque question had unknowingly sparked the realization that Jason was really  _his son_ , and he remembered the boy's comment from earlier, before they'd arrived at the party venue, while staring curiously out the car window.

_If you don't like being Brucie in front of these peacocks all the time, why not be yourself? I think the real Bruce is way cooler._

Bruce hadn't thought much of it at the time, having already been worked into a bad mood by the prospect of socializing with a crowd of false-faced tycoons, so he'd answered sternly with a lecture explaining the purpose of his civilian façade and the complexities of using social relations to his advantage. Jason had simply given him that toothy grin, raising his eyebrows while he kicked his heels into the seat of the limo. 

_Okay, wrangling up a flock of cougars sounds like fun. Wanna show me how it's done?_

Bruce hadn't taken Jason seriously, only chuckled in amusement, ruffled his hair and told him to stick close. As the blue light of the teleporter filled his vision, Bruce realized what a double entendre that had been. He had spent the rest of his evening in better spirits, Jason's snarky comments behind everyone's backs lightening his mood and deliberately whispered so only Bruce could appreciate the witty remarks. But Bruce had ignored the signs, didn't give them much thought—the slight quaver in the boy's voice every time he spoke, the subtle doubt in his downcast eyes that was practically asking for permission,  _'Is this allowed?'_

Jason hadn't believed he was a son either. Maybe that was why the boy had disappeared from his side long before he'd even acknowledged it as something that needed worrying over and his pathetic answer to the madam's offhanded question was:

_I don't know._

There was a  _zap_  of energy and when the flash of light receded, Batman found himself standing in front of his adopted daughter, Cassandra Cain, in her base of operations in Hong Kong. She nodded at him solemnly before he stepped off the platform and followed her to the armory to prepare for their trek into the unexplored ice fields of Siberia. And in the time it took him to unhook all his gear and select the appropriate equipment, Bruce made a vow. 

The next time someone asked for his son, he would have a better answer than ' _dead'_ , ' _who knows'_ , and silence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was a surprisingly peaceful morning when Paco and Andrés went outside the Milaflores locks at the Panama Canal to eat their lunch and watch the latest Panamax vessel slowly chug its way through the narrow water channel. The stormy oceans had made work for the navigation authority difficult and many vessels had been turned away from both the Pacific and the Atlantic Oceans due to the hazardous conditions that afflicted the area, much to everyone's chagrin.  Work was tedious and boring to say the least in recent times.

At the moment, the two co-workers were babbling to each other in Spanish over theories and fanatical ideas on the world's catastrophic problems as they sat on a row of crates at the side of the canal—" _Son alienígenas, te lo digo! extraterrestres!"_ —when suddenly, a rumbling in the distance, a low-pitched vibration through the air growing louder and louder, cut their conversation short. They gaped in shock as what looked like an oddly shaped rocket with a blue, flaming tail torpedoed past them overhead in a thunderous instant, rocking the ship and sending water, dirt, and miscellaneous objects flying every which way (including their lunches). 

_"... Te lo dije._  Aliens _._ " Paco said as the stunned friends watched the blistering trail of debris left in the aircraft's wake. 

Inside that alien aircraft, one Batgirl, Arsenal, Starfire, and a boy who was supposedly Jason Todd, were huddled in the cockpit, while a stowaway sat patiently in a dark corner at the back of the cargo cabin, unbenownst to the four travelers. Jason was resting in a pull-out cot, the feel of Kory's warm fingers ghosting through his hair and the whir of the ship's engine lulling him to sleep. Eventually, he lost track of time and his surroundings.

He found himself standing in the middle of an elegant ballroom, plush, burgundy carpet, a band of musicians thrumming background tunes from a stage, a vaulted ceiling set in intricate Roman arches high overhead. Hundreds of faceless socialites milled about casually, as if there wasn't a  _giant fucking fountain of champagne_  spilling sparkling alcohol over a pyramid of fluted glasses sitting smack in the center of the hall. It all seemed rather familiar to Jason—the glitzy jewelry, the spiffy suits, the grandiose venue—as if he had done this whole routine before, had stood awkwardly in his cardboard suit and monkey shoes tightly packaged around his limbs and neatly tied off with a bow-tie around his neck.

It was like watching a duck trying to mingle with a roost full of chickens. In a way, it was  _hilarious_.

And everyone else seemed to agree with him on that. He could hear the whispers.  _"Oh, it's him"; "Don't stare. He might wander over here if you stare"; "Wonder what the little degenerate did to get on Wayne's good side"; "Poor Brucie. He is such a darling, but he has absolutely no idea what a mistake this is";_ and even though it was all so new to him— the mean gossip, the disgustingly sweet smiles full of false cheer, passionate discussions about stocks and the weather— Jason really didn't give a fuck what they all thought about him. Because Bruce had given him a home and Jason was  _grateful_ , so he made it his mission to watch the older man's back while they were surrounded by predators, both on and off the streets.

_... about the boy, Brucie, dear._

Jason caught the tail end of the woman's words at the mention of 'Brucie' and he turned around to see a gaggle of the upper crust society surrounding the equally prim-and-proper gentleman, 'Brucie' Wayne.

_I mean,_  everyone  _understands about dear Richard, but I simply must know, what compelled you to... to pick up_  that  _stray? Theo would have gladly helped you find a suitable child if we had known you were looking to adopt._

Bruce for his part, simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled naively like he hadn't read between the lines of that remark. Jason was about to call out to Bruce, but froze when he heard the man's reply.

_Oh, I assure you Ms. Carroll, I wasn't._

He wasn't sure why, but Jason couldn't bring himself to interrupt while Bruce was acting the part of the oblivious, carefree rich boy all night. Because that's what it was, right? An  _act?_  He kept his head forward and walked through the crowd in the other direction.

_It_ _was a spur of the moment thing, you see? I didn't think too much about it at the time._

He kept walking until he reached the end of the ballroom and slipped into the hallway. There was a door left ajar next to a decorative painting in streaks of blood-red colors, a bridge, a bald figure clutching its head and its face screaming in perpetual turmoil. Inside, the room was some sort of showroom with a scattering of chairs and sofas arranged for visitors to lounge in. Jason flopped onto one of them, laid his head down, then rolled onto his side and tucked his knees into the pillows. 

He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting into unconsciousness. He slept like the dead until Bruce found him, hours later. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I started writing this chapter as a transition to catch up with what Bruce was up to at the moment, and it turned into some dark rambling vortex of memories within a memory and Jason somehow got sucked into the mix. Goddammit Bruce =_=
> 
> ... Whelp, sorry guys for the long ansty chapter. I swear I'll get back to the dectective-y-mystery stuff next time thank you very much =T
> 
> By the way, I made a quick reference to a painting near the end of the chapter. Can anyone guess what Jason was looking at (based on my horribly inadequate descriptions)?
> 
> Feedback and critiques are welcome as usual. See you next chapter!


	9. When I Grow Up, I—

 

Red Robin sighed heavily as Nightwing heaved him up onto the window ledge with one arm gripped around his torso. He twisted out of the older man's grasp the second he got a foothold to balance on his own, if only to salvage what was left of his dignity over the past half-hour of assisted rooftop-grappling across the city of Metropolis as if he was some kind of _invalid_.

Sure, his shoulder had needed surgical reduction after being badly dislocated and his head was still insistently pounding from his concussion, but aside from the scrapes and bruises, the damage really wasn't that _bad_. He had worked tirelessly through worse injuries before (they've _all_ lived through worse) and the image of Nightwing swinging overhead, visibly carting along Red Robin under his arm like extra baggage was _not_ the impression he wanted to portray on a city that rarely ever saw one of the Bats in action. Tim's stomach rolled in embarrassment at the thought ( _"Up in the sky, look!"; "It's a bird!"; "It's a plane!"; "No, silly Daddy, i_ _t's a mama-bird and a baby-bird!"_ ). 

Nightwing raised an eyebrow at his partner (who was hunched over like a sulking gargoyle next to him), then wiggled the blue-striped fingers of the arm Red Robin had pushed away from, as if trying to coax the grumbling teen back into his half embrace.

"Come on, little brother, no need to be embarrassed," Dick smirked knowingly at him. "Nothing wrong with leaning on someone else's shoulder when you need it."

_When do I ever?_ Tim frowned, rolled his eyes and subconsciously tugged at the straps of the sling restraining his left shoulder. Thankfully, the sling left everything mobile from the elbow down, but his upper arm was completely encased in the hard, durable material and secured tightly around his chest. It made him feel like a kid forced to wear bubble wrap and safety pads before he was allowed to even step outside the house, and maybe that was exaggerating a bit, but Tim wasn't in the mood for slow-and-steady after everything that had happened over the last forty-eight hours and patience was the first of his virtues to be tossed out the window. 

"You really didn't have to come along for this," Nightwing sighed and started working into the window lock when he realized Tim wasn't going to humor his brotherly shenanigans so easily. "Taking care of yourself is just as important as the mission, Timmy. Even Damian agreed to stay behind. This part of the work is easy stuff, basic protocol: get in, get the evidence, plant a wire in the room, and get out."

Tim grimaced. "I appreciate the concern, _Nightwing_ , but save the lecture for someone who needs it. I know my limits. I'm not a kid anymore," _or_ Robin _anymore_ , Tim didn't say. Despite his current disgruntled mood, there were just some old wounds you should never reopen, even if your own had never quite healed straight. Scarred edges tend to tug painfully, a reminder that things can never be quite the same again.

And even if Dick would always be his brother in everything but blood, whether or not he wore the 'R' on his tunic, there was a part of Tim that would never speak his mind completely when in his brother's presence, not like before. There was a time when Tim, young and impressionable, would have been ecstatic at the idea that Dick Grayson, a _Flying Grayson_ and the original _Boy Wonder_ himself, considered the untalented, ordinary Timothy Drake as his family. Dick had been a better brother than most kids with real siblings had and Tim had to admit he knew how lucky he was (because being friends with Dick Grayson was a lifetime promise and Tim would never _ever_ take that for granted).

In fact, Tim had been so sure of their strong ties that even after his life started falling to pieces, after Dick lost his confidence in him, he came back from his globe-trotting still hoping that his life could go back to normal. And maybe it did, one way or another. After all, he'd returned to find his friends were alive;  _Bruce_ was alive; and even after their fallout over Bruce's supposed death and Damian's usurping of the Robin mantle, Dick was still willing to dive off a skyscraper to save his younger brother's life. What more could he ask for?

The truth. Their trust. Maybe just an acceptance that Tim had grown up when neither Bruce nor Dick were there to watch over him. Because even after all this time, they still treated Jason Todd like a private matter, like it wasn't Tim's burden to deal with. Because _Tim had grown up_ and he realized that maybe Bruce and Dick weren't always the faultless idols he believed them to be; _they_ were the ones who subconsciously dwelled on past regrets the most, always speculating on things that _should_ have been— _not him_. 

And that would be the reason why Tim felt obligated to solve this case on his own. He had speculated a dozen scenarios with Bruce, and Dick, and Jason, and none of them were looking good at the moment.

Tim waited patiently as Nightwing disabled the alarm remotely with a hacking device, unlatched the window, and slipped quietly into the room. Tim briefly scanned behind him, the darkened grounds of Metropolis University that stretched out below, before following after him into the building. They dropped into some kind of study with bookshelves and a large, oak desk set by the walls, glass showcases spotlighted and mounted on pedestals around and between various workbenches. After sweeping through the room to deactivate trip wires and loop security cameras, Nightwing gestured to the filing cabinets and the benches.

"I'll check those," he said. "You take the computer and the desk." Tim noted how he was being assigned the less strenuous tasks to complete, but he accepted the coddling with a nod and the two vigilantes swiftly went to work. 

Tim booted up the computer then scanned through the papers on the desk and checked the drawers for locks, traps or fake bottoms. As he worked, he recalled their last conversation with Oracle, back at the cave several hours ago.

_<... I traced the manufacturing codes of the security card back to a standard ID card printer and encoder. The model is outdated, so no organizations should be currently using this type of card, and that's obviously a red flag. But here's where it gets interesting_ — _I did some digging and found that the institutions that previously used the printers have had their usage information recently erased. >_

_"So whoever erased the information was trying to cover their tracks. A little paranoid, but smart nonetheless. It's almost cute, thinking they can escape the eyes of our Genius Hacker," Dick smiled up at the screen where Oracle's obscured avatar was displayed. Tim was lying quietly on a gurney in the medical bay having groggily woken up sooner than expected post-surgery and eavesdropping on the conversation without actually meaning to._

_There was a hint of amusement in Barbara's modified voice when she replied, <Keep praising my ego like that, Wonder Boy, and I'll start thinking you're propositioning me.>_ 

_Dick could have easily continued the playful flirting indefinitely, but to Tim's surprise, he dropped the banter as quickly as he'd started it. His voice was clipped when he spoke next, no room for humor._

_"I need a favor, Babs."_

_< So you_ are  _propositioning me? >_

_"Trust me, if it was any other day of the year, I probably would be."_

_Barbara was quick to catch on to Dick's melancholic demeanor, even through the grainy dimness of the cave that must be showing on her side of the screen._

_"What do you need, Dick?" she asked._

_The voice modifier turned off and there was a softness in her tone that belied the straightforwardness of the question. Dick and Barbara had always understood each other on a wavelength that Tim could never quite tune into, and for the most part, Tim had felt like an intruder in moments like this. They were childhood friends and even lovers at one point, but the fact that they weren't an item anymore didn't discredit their relationship any less. All of Dick's relationships tended to be like that, with friends, family, lovers and acquaintances._ All except one of course _, Tim thought, the flash of a blood red mask and a vicious grin across his mind's eye._

_Dick lowered his voice until Tim had to strain his ears to listen. "... Don't tell Tim about Jason," he uttered._

_"You mean, that he's—?"_

_"Yes, that." There was a pause. Tim listened curiously to the soft sound of deep breathing coming from the other side of the cave, as if Dick were trying to compose himself and Barbara was strangely silent. "Tim, he—I'm not sure when it happened, but... Jason was getting better lately, before he disappeared. I can't say whether it was because he'd left Gotham or if something else changed, but he was working with Tim on a lot of cases, so I figured he'd somehow made peace... with his past. With everything that's happened between us. He hadn't killed anyone in a long time until that shot he made in Hong Kong months ago."_

_Tim's gut twisted in sympathy for Dick. The older man's reasoning couldn't have been farther from the truth. Maybe it was because Tim only knew Jason's past through biased words, monotonous reports and candid photos of a grinning boy in green pixie boots, but Tim had never felt entitled enough to make those types of judgments about Jason. Which was probably why he found it easy to make a truce, to not exactly forgive him of his wrongdoings but at least come to terms with them (trying to kill him on more than one occasion included). The olive branch was Tim's first step to try and understand Jason._

  
_Bruce and Dick, however, (and everyone else for that matter) may have somewhat believed the dead Robin's plea for sanity, connecting the dots from the boy he was to the brutal man he had become, but Tim was never convinced (c_ _riminality was not a predisposition and Bruce of all people knew that fact better than he knew his own face in the mirror)_ _. It was all bravado, frustration, bitterness, anger,_ _grief, and more grief_ _—_ _those kinds of distressing feelings, plus the influence of Talia_ _and the Lazarus pit, weren't a healthy combination. Tim had seen the anguish, the haunted look in his eyes when he was being beaten like a punching bag by the troubled man. He may not have understood it then, but he now knew what it felt like to think no one cared about you in the end, to realize you're not needed by anyone anymore—to be_ replaced _._

_"All right, Dick," Barbara agreed without any resistance. "If that's what you think is best."_

_"Thanks, Babs."_

_"Don't thank me yet. You still need to investigate the lead from Ra's' mercenaries about Doctor Parsman. One of the institutions where I picked up the ghost trail of old security codes included Metropolis University, and how_ _convenient is it that Parsman was a top researcher at Metropolis University before lecturing at Gotham U?"_

_"Another red flag," Dick agreed. The clunking sound of shifting parts told Tim that Dick had moved towards the workbench and started prepping his gear. "Send what we have of Doctor Parsman's profile to my terminal, I'll review it while enroute. If I find anything in Metropolis, I'll let you know."_

_"You mean,_ we _will let you know," Tim cut in as loud as could, mentally forcing the sluggish fog of anesthetics over his mind into the background and sliding off the gurney to join Nightwing at the computers._

"Found anything?" Dick called out as he sifted through a workbench drawer full of documents and items on the other side of the room. 

Tim broke out of his reverie to see the hacking window on the computer screen disappear, allowing him access to the university's databases. 

"I'm in. Give me a second." A few more moments of typing, and then—"Here we go. Allen Scott Parsman, sixty-seven, born in Cincinnati, Ohio, Had a pretty ordinary childhood, average marks in school, completed his Bachelor's degree and obtained his PhD in Sociology and Anthropology at Metropolis University—all things we've already seen in his profile. Let's see... was involved with research at several archeological sites across Asia and—huh... interesting..." Tim trailed off, his eyes narrowing suspiciously behind his mask as he continued to read the report.

Dick was reaching his arm into the cross space between the file cabinet drawers and pulled out a thick manila package from within. "Same here, Timmy," he said as he inspected his find. "You first, what have you got?"

"We know that Parsman spent a lot of his later years in research at the Denisova cave in the Altai Mountains of Siberia. But, the dates don't match up—here it says he ended the dig early, with only several months left until his official retirement and in the middle of an important excavation of a previously unexplored region of the cave. There doesn't seem to be any details on if they discovered anything significant..."

"Oh, I think they hit the jackpot all right," Dick breathed, flipping intently through the files in his hands. 

"Hard copies? Let me see." 

Tim took a few sheets from the pile that Dick handed him and wondered what kind of earth-shaking revelation could cause such duality of fear and interest, compelling the man to delete all digital evidence, but still keep the physical documentation?

The photos that he examined depicted a multitude of cave inscriptions and Paleolithic cave drawings and Tim was suddenly reminded of the Bat inscription he had found a few years back during his travels that had sparked the hope that Bruce was alive, lost somewhere in time. There was no Bat in these pictures, only ominous cult-like successions of humanoid figures laying out a trail of massacre like some kind of bloody pilgrimage, and a black river of handprints in every drawing, a metaphor of something dark and dangerous, all leading to the centre of the massive, enshrined painting. Needless to say, Tim felt nothing close to hope, only a chilling realization when he turned to the last page. 

" _Shit_."

"Exactly. Looks like Bruce missed a spot while he was busy wiping Lazarus pits off the face of the Earth."

Because the drawn silhouette that was rising from the dark, painted pool of splotches was definitely something _demonic_. And beneath the mural, the gray-haired Allen Parsman stood smiling next to another aging man with a hooked beard like sharpened teeth—Ra's al Ghul. 

In the notes below, Tim read:

>   
>  _Chronological interpretation shows the slain figures being somehow rejuvenated in what appears to be a lake. No evidence of such a lake formation in the Altai Mountain range. Intentional smudging of dark pigment in the background above a steep range of cone-like marks could depict volcanoes, which would make the location somewhere in Eastern Siberia, along the Alaska-Aleutian thrust fault. Speculation falls on_ Klyuchevskaya Sopka _, which has been the center of religious importance to the indigenous people for centuries. Refer to Appendix IV for comparison of Dr. Ra's' notes._

 

If Tim recalled correctly the last coordinates he had received from the tracker he planted on one of the retreating helicopters... He abruptly stood up from the desk. "Bruce needs to see this," he stated. The papers, not the _tracker_. Tim would make sure he was on location to settle everything with Jason and The Demon's Head before anyone else caught wind of that information. 

"He's already on his way from Hong Kong—to Eastern Siberia, not Denisova cave," Dick amended. 

The teen sighed. "Why am I not surprised? He's going with Cass. We better meet up with them before anything else happens."

" _I am afraid you are too late for that_."

In an instant, Red Robin and Nightwing had their weapons out at the intruders deep voice and spun around towards the other side of the room where a giant man in dark garments and a  _hijab_  veil covering his head and face loomed just inside the doorway. Neither of them had sensed the man's approach and alarms were going off in Tim's head. _An_ _assassin_. 

And not just any assassin. By the man's hulking stature alone, Tim knew exactly who they were dealing with. Ra's' loyal right-hand man and trusted leader of his bodyguards— _Ubu_. 

"Well, at least we know we're in the right place," Nightwing quipped as the two vigilantes moved together cautiously, shifting back-to-back when more assassins flooded into the room and had them surrounded in one breath.

Red Robin snorted, "I wonder what gave it away? The giant assassin in the room or the deadly foot ninjas with razor-sharp katanas?"

Nightwing would have thrown another comment at that over his shoulder if given the chance, but there was no more room for back-talk between the two brothers as the enemies closed in for the kill...

 

 

* * *

 

For the hundredth time over the past several hours, Stephanie realized she should have read the fine print when she inherited the mantle of Batgirl from her longtime best friend, Cassandra Cain. She probably should have read it long before that too, way back when she traded in her purple cloak for the vibrant colors of Robin and was disappointed to find that the stylistic, yellow 'R' branded on her chest did _not_ make her a ' _Wonder_ ' anything.

Oh, and there was also that time after she signed up as Barbara's student to learn the kick-ass ways of Batgirl and Bat-brooding, but of course, she obviously had to go and forget that little detail called  _Terms and Conditions_ again. It's not that she regretted all the unexpected things that happened afterwards, like a factory defect in Cass' costume that couldn't quite accommodate her generous cup size or how she was still waiting to get her money back for all the coffees she bought for her mentor every time she dropped by for training (Artisan coffee wasn’t cheap you know). It was more of a checking-all-your-bases-before-you-sign-your-life-away thing that Stephanie had always had trouble remembering to do whenever she made big purchases.

You would _think_ she would have found a way to work around that by now, but _nope_ , she had to go kick rationality in the rear once more and volunteer for a new job—

As Oracle's liaison with _The Outlaws_ , the infamous vigilantes that were free to take naps and splash around on tropical beaches all day while the rest of the diligent heroes of the world did all the hard work and had actual nine-to-five civilian jobs (remember those?). _Oh_ , and did she mention that The Outlaws get to travel around in an _alien spaceship?_  She was totally digging that glowing shade of neon purple coming from the dashboard—

"I swear, Blondie, you call us ' _Outlaws_ ' one more fucking time and you'll wish you had signed away your entire fucking _purple existence_. I've got a literal _bloody sneaker_ in my hand and I am not afraid to use it."

_Whoopsies_ , woke up the grumpy Jason-clone with her unconscious babbling for the past couple hours. Speaking of bad habits, she should probably try to avoid thinking out loud like that without realizing. It seemed to put the oompa-sized Red Hood in a bad mood, but luckily Steph had practical experience babysitting grumpy pre-pubescents (namely, the current ninja-assassin Robin). If she could tame a wild baby ninja-Bat, she could work her magic on some de-aged version of a zombified Robin. Everything should be fine as long as she doesn't get bitten (it probably has rabies).

"I will seriously _bite_ you, _bitch_ , if you don't shut up already."

Her point exactly. They'll have to work on manners first. 

" _Rude,_ " Stephanie chirped for now, but didn't comment any further from her seat on the small alien cruiser that was currently flying over the Pacific Ocean. 

In the ship's cabin, Roy was lounging in the command seat, banging his head to some heavy metal tunes blaring out of his headphones; Koriand'r was sitting in a nook near the back of the cockpit which acted as some sort of medical bay; the little clone of Jason was resting on a cot in aforementioned medical bay, his face scrunched up in a death glare in her direction, a hilarious impression of the intimidating man he was supposed to be, reenacted by a baby-faced kid who was adorable in that way that tough kids were with dirt on their everywhere and  _Mickey Mouse_ bandages over scrapes in places you never knew could ever get scratched.

In other words, Stephanie was absolutely smitten (her big sister instincts had been tingling for a while now) despite the strangeness of her situation; for instance, when was the last time Stephanie Brown had had a chance to have a heart-to-heart chat with the murderous ex-Robin, The Red Hood, in such uncomfortably close quarters? Yeah, _never_. 

Looking at the boy now, stubbornly trying to change into a slightly too-large set of combat clothes plus his trademark leather jacket that Koriand'r and Roy had wisely brought with them, Stephanie felt a pang of something she'd never thought to feel for the other man (the man that was probably _dead_ in the true sense this time, according to Oracle at least). Especially now, seeing the grown-up boy that he was in the flesh instead of a cautionary tale of, _"Don't be reckless, Steph,"_ or, _"This is what'll happen to you someday if you don't stop, Steph,"_  or even, _"See this? This is what being Robin means. The danger. The trust. I don't think you understand that. Neither did he."_

True, Steph had made mistakes when she was young and eager to do something good in her life, to prove to everyone that she was capable of being more than the headstrong girl they labelled her as. But, she was mature enough now to admit her own faults, so what the hell gave them the right to tell her that she didn't _understand about Jason Todd?_

If anything, Steph was the one who could relate to Jason most, coming from a humble background, impulsive sense of justice, and a crook for a father. Among all the people who judged and speculated on the big question of _'What Went Wrong?'_ , she was probably the most entitled to make judgements about Jason's choices in life, even though she and the other man were only acquaintances in the vaguest meaning of the word.

But, the reality was that Stephanie had never actually  _died_  (although she came pretty close), and had a caring mother still thankfully alive, in good health and present in her life. She also had Cass, whom she was definitely still the best of friends with, and Barbara, the strict, but devoted mentor who had taken her under her wing and made her a partner. She could even proudly say her platonic relationship with her ex-boyfriend, one Timothy Drake, was going swell, and although it took a bit of cajoling on her part ( _a truckload_ of cajoling and maybe some good ol' fashioned waffle bribes on the side), her bonds with Nightwing and the Batman himself were on the mends. 

Stephanie had gotten past that difficult time in her life, jumped into a storm of hardships and came out the other side in one piece. A little broken and stitched together, but she'd had more than enough time to reflect on her past regrets—giving up the daughter she'll never know, the resentment and disappointment towards her father, the rejection by her vigilante peers, the bad break-up, the near-death experience, the lack of trust—and in time, she came out a fairly well-adjusted,  _better_ person nonetheless. Stephanie had grown up. 

Jason never got the chance to grow up like she did. 

"I said _'shut up'_ , not _'stare deep into my tortured soul'_ , Blondie," Jason snorted, his round, bruised face suddenly glaring two inches from her own. Stephanie jerked in surprise and for a moment, she panicked. Was she contemplating out loud again? Hopefully not.

Once she quickly composed herself, assured that he hadn't heard her thoughts, Steph crossed her arms and leaned forward in her chair to loom over the grouchy boy's head in what she hoped was a chastising gesture. "Can I help you, Tater tot?" she asked.

"Who the hell are you calling, _Tater tot_ , _Blondie?_ " 

"Hey, if I get a nickname, everyone here gets a nickname too," Steph countered. She thumbed her chin in serious contemplation. "How about... Firecracker, Tater tot, aaaand... Rusty?"

"Why the hell, _Rusty?_ " Roy interjected indignantly as he yanked off his headphones and twisted to show is displeasure in her direction. No one questioned how he even heard their conversation in the first place given the raucous guitar sounds that was spewing out of the earpieces.

Steph raised an eyebrow at him. "Who said Koriand'r was Firecracker?"

"Oh, right." There was a beat, then... wait for it..."Hey, wait a—"

"Hey, Blondie." 

"Are we seriously going with Blondie? I mean, I wouldn't mind something a little more creative like Waffle Queen, Honey Bolt, Eggplant Menace, _The Brown Smackdown_ —"

"Shut up for a second." Jason cut her off, but he wasn't looking at her. He had turned away from everyone in the cabin and started shifting slowly towards the entrance to the docking bay. No one moved, the steady hum of the ship's thrusters and Roy's jaunty tunes filling the silence, then—

Jason swiftly pulled out the knife in his side holster and leaped through the slightly ajar pressure doors. Everyone rushed in after him as the sounds of a scuffle echoed through the hull and when Roy turned on the bay lights they were greeted by the sight of two boys tussling on the floor, both trying to stab each other with sharp objects in their hands. The slightly taller boy was wearing a familiar red, yellow, and green uniform...

The stowaway was distracted momentarily by the sudden blinding floodlights shining down on them and Jason took the upper hand before either of the adults present could intervene. He stabbed his knife through the yellow cape and the floor before his opponent could slide away, causing the cape to yank him backwards—then, with a sweep behind his knees the boy toppled over with Jason pinning him triumphantly to the floor.

Robin scowled up at everyone with a sneer of disapproval on his face, as if _they_ were the intruders on  _his_ alien aircraft.

" _-Tt-_ lucky shot, Todd. But you should know that the only appropriate name for Brown is  _Fatgirl_."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys didn't miss me too much! I made up for it with a longer chapter than normal, soooo... forgive me? *scurries off to grab a football helmet*
> 
> I tried doing something different with Tim and Steph, whom I am overwhelmed right now both by how much complex storylines they have lived through and how much I actually don't know about them 8((( Sorry if they seem a little OOC, I did my best! But, as always, let me know what you guys think, critiques/comments are always welcome.
> 
> Future updates will be delayed, unfortunately, due to life obligations right now, but I'll do my best not to leave you guys hanging.
> 
> See you next chapter! (Hopefully... =P)


	10. It Smells of Mortality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what? It's not just a warning for only Jason's potty mouth today. I guess that's what happens when you put two Robins with attitude together =T
> 
> Seriously, these two can get into some pretty offensive arguments in my head. I did my best to censor them, but just a heads up.

 

Imagine this:

A molten, dark chocolate lava cake, baked to moist perfection with a deep, bittersweet syrup hidden beneath the mask of a finely textured, cocoa-laced pastry. Then there is a curry, vegetables and meat stewed in a thick broth of herbs, spices and chilies, rich in exotic flavor and scorching hot to every tongue it touches. One day, the chef known as Fate comes along and decides to dump the lava cake into the curry, sending the two worlds of dessert and entrée into an uproar, but neither side could deny that the offspring dish that came out of their union was perhaps even more deliciously brilliant than the parents. 

Two months into their partnership as Batman and Robin, when Damian was younger, Grayson was convinced that this was a perfectly valid rendition of Damian's conception. 

Damian of course, objected to that ridiculous analogy with every fiber of his being and made sure to express his strong feelings on the matter by stealing the other man's share of Alfred's cookies and feeding them to his friend, Colin. Which was a fairly tame response on his part, given the multitude of vengeances he could have done to get back at Dick Grayson for his insulting preconceptions and the man's overall  _unworthiness_ in his presence.

But after countless nights of mishaps, dark rooftops, and seething in his frustrations alone in his room, waiting for his pride to flare into the familiar need for physical retaliation, Damian was partly horrified (and maybe a little admissible) to find that he couldn't bring himself to carry out a hard, swift, and precise punishment like he usually would, the way he was trained to do by the League of Assassins when someone offends your values in such a way.

At some point, he had stopped taking every cheerful jab and quip at his person as some kind of verbal threat to his wellbeing, and the hair ruffles and knuckles rubbing into his scalp gradually seemed less like ambushes to test his capabilities, and more like friendly invitations to play (like an overgrown puppy nipping at your heels, with a lot less fur but just as much slobbering). Damian learned to tolerate the obvious attempts the other man put into curbing his violent tendencies (because Damian wasn't _stupid_ —he knew exactly what his self-appointed mentor was trying to do, the purpose behind every poke and prod, every infuriatingly patient reprimand followed up with a life lesson) and accepted the unnecessary affection with all the grace of a grandparent humoring a rambunctious, clingy child.

It wasn't until the man was suddenly no longer a constant by his side, that Damian realized that he had become more than _just a partner_ —Damian had struggled with the words on how to describe it, how he felt about his father's first charge, the man who taught him how to do a quadruple somersault, how to _save_ lives instead taking them, and what it meant to be Robin, what it  _meant_ to him, but somehow along the way, through their stilted arguments, the battles they've won and lost—learning to rely on one another, how to fight on the streets as a team—he had become a _brother_.

And Damian felt like such a fool. Because Drake called Dick  _his_ brother and had tried to convince him that they were the same, but Damian had never needed one in the first place, had never seen why having a "proper family" was so important to them. He hated it because it meant he cared enough to acknowledge that Drake was right; it meant that he now had an exploitable  _weakness_ ; it meant that he didn't _hate_ having siblings as much as he wanted to.

Which begged the question—if Richard was a brother, Cassandra an adopted sister, Brown and Gordon their annoying "neighbors," and at the very least, he was generous enough to except Drake as a worthy rival, then where did _Jason Todd_ fit in? What made the reject Robin so special as to earn Drake's, Grayson's, and even his _father's_ unwarranted attention? 

Damian clucked his tongue in annoyance at the thought, which echoed loudly thanks to the narrow space of the ventilation duct he was currently shuffling through. In front of him, the clone of Jason Todd shot him a look over his shoulder, illuminated by the flashlight in his hand. _What is it this time, Brat?_ said the other boy's exasperatedly raised eyebrow. Damian simply snarled under his breath and pushed at the booted feet in front him to urge him to continue moving forward. _None of your damn business_. Jason knew perfectly well this wasn't the time or place to tug on an irritable Robin's tail feathers so he dropped the subject with a snort and shuffled onwards. 

The two boys continued their slow crawl through the dark in silence for another minute or so before they came upon a grating in the floor of the shaft. After listening briefly for any signs of life, Jason promptly kicked through the vent, foregoing discretion and dropped into the darkened hallway, quickly followed by his masked companion.

"I demand you tell me the truth now, Todd," Damian ordered, breaking the silence the moment he confirmed they were alone. "You promised to do so if I assisted you in escaping Fatgirl and your merry band of _Outlaws_."

Jason groaned and held back the urge to throw his knife at the other boy's inflated ego. Unfortunately, with the blade still sheathed. He needed a living partner in this endeavor after all. 

"For the last fucking time. _Don't call us that_. Or I might decide to holster my gun down your _throat_ and pull the goddamn trigger," Jason threw the threat over his shoulder as the two boys stalked down the hallway, Jason leading the way. 

"I'd be thoroughly entertained to see you try, _Reject_."

"Am I supposed to be insulted? Because that was adorable, you little _dipshit_  who thinks he's a badass."

"Better than being just an _ass_ , which you are, Todd. I'm sure you were born on a bed of straw like one too."

"Says the bastard child who mommy didn't love enough to carry in her own womb."

"You are incompetent. _Fuck you,_ Todd _._ "

"And a _Merry Fuck-you-_ _too_ , Demon Spawn."

Thus the insults were fired back and forth in a constant stream of profanity between the two as they arrived at a vaulted atrium spanning several levels down and various laboratories beyond the blacked-out windows on each floor leading deeper into the facility. Jason took out a bottle of chalk dust from his belt and blew a fist-full of it into the air, revealing hundreds of trip laser sensors focused around the staircases and elevator. _Shit_. Well, who said this was going to be easy?

As Jason started walking carefully along the landing they were currently standing on to assess their surroundings, Damian ruminated silently over his decision to accompany the clone on this venture. It was only several hours ago that the unlikely crew of vigilantes Damian had found himself joining consisted of slightly more tolerable company (but only _slightly_ ). They had landed the spaceship under the cover of a late winter snowstorm on the outskirts of Yakutsk, capital of the Sakha Republic, on Oracle's advice. She hadn't mentioned how she had narrowed down the possible locations to such a remote area of Russia where her technological influence was limited, but Damian and Jason knew exactly which detective (only the  _world's greatest_ one, obviously) had sniffed out the trail of cargo trucks carrying "staple meats, fish, and fruits" all the way from Vladivostok. The group had debriefed on a plan to reach their objective—an old research facility within the city, supposedly under jurisdiction of S.T.A.R. Labs. When Damian had glimpsed Oracle's report on the facility, he immediately saw why the place had raised their suspicions; the director of this branch research institute of Cell Biophysics was named _Profesör Ölümsüz_. Literally, _Professor Immortal_. The man may as well have stuck a label on his forehead, written in bold, _Hello, my name is:_ Professor Ivo. Damian found it amusing how the criminal mastermind's downfall after death would be a result of his absurd, obsessive  _fear_ of death.

As Red Arrow, Starfire, and Batgirl planned their route of entry, Damian had noticed the little clone's uncharacteristic lack of input on the matter.

_"What's wrong, Clone? Getting cold feet already?" Damian mocked with a smirk_. _The vague response he received in return wasn't exactly what he was expecting._

_"It's not there."_

_Damian cocked a questioning eyebrow at him."Pardon?"_

_Jason was staring with hardened eyes straight into the white flurry that blew beyond the cockpit's windshield. His face was pale, frozen in concentration. After a pause, he murmured, "I remember. There was a forest, trucks driving on the ice..."_

_"What are you babbling on about, Todd?"_

_Jason suddenly turned his head to look the other boy in the eye. With all seriousness, he asked, "You up for some ice hopping across the Lena river?"_

And so, the two boys had slipped off the ship while the "adults" were busy glossing over blueprints for the _wrong building_ and trudged off through the snow in the opposite direction of the city, towards the broken sheets of ice in the distance. With Damian's help, they were able to grapple the ice floats together, leap precariously across the treacherous chasms, and make their way to one of the many nameless islands sitting in the middle of the expansive river. Sure enough, they'd hit the jackpot following Jason's nose; an entire research complex dedicated to Ivo's unethical side projects, camouflaged carefully amidst the surrounding forest. There were a number of guards in familiar mercenary uniforms patrolling the outer edges despite the whole compound appearing to be mysteriously dormant and void of life in general. The unlikely pair had found a gap in the guards' patrol route and managed to shimmy into the building's ventilation system undetected. 

Which brings them to their current predicament, deep inside the lion's den. 

Jason was inspecting a pillar by the railing and attempting to secure a grapple anchor to it when Damian spoke again. 

"You didn't answer my initial inquiry. Tell me now," Damian interjected and stalked right between the other boy and his work on the pillar. "Why are you going to such lengths to confront _The Demon?_ You are not the real Jason Todd. You're—"

"Can you _shut the fuck up already_. _Jesus_ , why is everyone such a critic?" Jason griped, rolling his eyes upwards as if he could find the answer written on the ceiling.

"Answer the question."

" _Obnoxious fucker_. Why do ya' wanna know so badly?" The shorter boy stuck his nose right up in the slightly taller boy's face in challenge. Damian stood his ground.

"Because father, Grayson, Drake, Gordon, and now even _Brown—we_ have wasted much of our time on you, even though you are not the _real Jason Todd_. Since you have no merits, not even as the man you think you are, I see no point in their meddling. My grandfather should be the most concerning threat, not _you_ —"

"All right, what the fuck are you getting at, kid?" Jason cut in impatiently, shouldering his way around Damian to attach his line and started backtracking towards the railing. 

Damian scowled. "Your original has attempted to kill any one of our allies on more than one occasion," he continued, letting the other boy get away with the attitude (for now) as he attached a line as well and marched up to the edge. "The man tried to kill _me_. And now there's you; you saved Drake at the airport and here you are attempting to rescue hundreds of missing civilians. What is your end game?"

Both boys shifted to perch on the railing with their lines pulled taut and promptly hopped over the side in unison. 

"You know what?" Jason replied as they dodged several trip lasers rappelling themselves along the rope lines into the empty space of the atrium, "There is no end game. Here's a lesson for you, Demon Spawn: No one ever really has, what you call, _'an_   _end game'._ It's just an excuse we use to justify the means."

Damian huffs his usual condescending laugh. "You changed the wording. As if you would know anything about _resolve_ and _purpose_ , Todd," he said. 

"I know that living on nothing but milkshakes and _resolve_ only ends with a lot of puke and an empty stomach. But, better than living with no  _purpose_ at all."

"And yet you still manage to avoid the topic," Damian retorts as they touched down on the atrium floor, which opened up into a vaulted mezzanine and the elevator on one side, and a giant tunnel-like hallway on the other. Beyond the tunnel, a red glow emanated just out of sight. 

Jason unhooked himself from the line and, quickly shifting against the wall to dodge a swivelling camera, began moving like a shadow towards the tunnel. "It's all in how you look at it," he whispered. Robin attached a small EMP transmitter to the camera facing the tunnel entrance and on his signal, Jason slipped around the corner, into the dimness. "Why does anyone do what they do? Whether it's for self-satisfaction or some altruistic bullshit, they're both just sides of the same coin—me? I'm not so arrogant to think I'm any different."

Following the ominous red glow on the other side of the walkway, the pair cracked the code on the pressure-locked doors and suddenly found themselves standing in a vast laboratory, rows of tubes full of a strange red liquid laid out on the floor between the bulk of machinery and technology. When Damian moved closer to inspect one, he felt a sinking horror in his gut. 

There, floating inside the tube, was a premature fetus. And on the monitor screen was a countdown for _'Days left until programmed age,'_ as well as data on the specific genotype of a particular individual. The fetus was a _clone_. 

"Hey, Demon Spawn, you should see this," Jason called. 

"I already have, Todd. And since I've refrained from calling you _'Clone'_ , I expect to be given the same courtesy in _names_."

"Fine, _all right_. Just hurry up and _look_."

"I told you, _I have_."

"I'm not talking about the clones, _Robin._ I'm talking about _this."_  Jason groaned impatiently on the far side of the lab. 

When Damian stalked up behind Jason to glimpse through the windows on another set of pressure doors, he knew immediately that they needed to call back up. The room beyond was a cavernous storage bay lined with gigantic walls upon walls of _stasis pods_. And inside each pod, Damian could make out the form of a  _human body_. 

Damian stepped back from the doors. "We should return to the others. There's nothing more we can do here."

"Hold up. If I'm right, these are only _some_ of the missing people. There were a few more buildings on the complex that we haven't checked yet—"

The rest of Jason's words were cut off by the blaring alarms and he leapt back as the emergency shutters suddenly slammed down over every exit. 

Jason yelled above the explosion of noise, " _I swear it wasn't me—!_ "

Suddenly, the wall on the other side of the lab fell away to reveal a hulking figure, humanoid in appearance, but with a suspicious metallic sheen to its skin and glowing red eyes.

Damian grit his teeth and readied two batarangs. Jason cursed under his breath when he realized what the _thing_ was and wondered how two kids with two flimsy batarangs would fair up against the near impenetrable super android known as _Amazo_. 

From behind the giant superpowered robot, stepped out a familiar villain in formal military wear and an emerald green cloak, the fierce glare of The Demon's mask set above his shoulders.

"Welcome, gentlemen. I wanted to make sure I had your undivided attention," Ra's said, his hands clasped relaxed behind his back as he regarded the two intruders. 

"Jason Todd," he acknowledged. "Have you finally decided to bring justice to this world?"

Jason subtly reached behind him to grasp his handgun. No sudden movements. To the supervillain, he growled, "What _justice?_ You're just gonna let that fucking android loose on us anyways."

"True. It was merely a formality," The Demon's Head noted, then with flick of his wrist, the android surged forward. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Outside, the resounding _boom!_ of an explosion rocked the compound, sending all the guards into motion. As a group of them passed under a particular archway, two shadows pounced from above and the soldier's screams were muffled by the snow. 

Batman and Black Bat quickly tied the unconscious bodies together and left them partially hidden in a corner of the archway. As they swiftly followed after the patrol of guards, Cassandra surprisingly was the first to break the silence.

"Superman?" she asked, her reserved words just loud enough to be heard above the wind. 

"Gone. As soon as he heard the explosion," Batman replied. 

"Could be dangerous."

"Most likely," he agreed, "Since this is one of Ivo's abandoned facilities we're dealing with. But that's never stopped him before."

Cassandra nodded her head and that was the apparent end of the conversation. 

The two vigilantes came to a side entrance where Batman used a key card taken from the guards to enter the building. Inside, the high-pitched wail of the alarms deafened any chance of further talk between the two, but lack of communication was never an issue; they seamlessly switched to sign language, Batman taking the lead while Black Bat took the rear. They followed the twisting hallways towards the centre of the building, hiding around corners to avoid the occasional unit of soldiers rushing past, until they came upon a mezzanine area at the bottom-most level. Crashing, shouting, gunshots; the tell-tale sounds of destruction echoed throughout the hall and Batman was already rushing towards the source, Black Bat close behind, when he suddenly jerked back, pulling her down with him—and a bullet pierced his cape with a _bang!_

"Always so perceptive. The _protector_. You never cease to amaze me with your prowess." The smooth voice projected above the chaos in the background. 

The Batman rose from the floor to face the lithe figure in a form-fitting combat suit, pointing the barrel of a handgun at his chest from across the mezzanine. 

"Your mind is as sharp as ever, Beloved."

 

 

* * *

 

 

" _You're lying._ It's not possible—he's not—"

"What reason do I have for lying to you? I gain nothing from misleading The Batman and his allies."

"Well, you haven't given us a reason to _trust_ you either. Tim, tell me you aren't buying this bullshit?" Dick turned to his younger brother, obvious distress written over his face behind the domino mask. 

Next to him, Red Robin stood solemnly still, a shadow over his visage. All Nightwing could see was the stark outline of frozen tension in the younger man's jaw as he read the assassin with an analytical glare. He didn't need to look to know that Tim's fingers were digging painfully into his palms, clenched fists shaking with restraint hidden beneath his cape.

When Tim spoke, he was the perfect image of compose. 

"Take us to Dr. Parsman. We have a lot to discuss and not much time to spare."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see guys!
> 
> Honestly, I had a little trouble starting this chapter off. Not sure how I feel about the little-d-Big-D introspective, but the last month has been pretty stressful and I figured you guys have been waiting long enough to find out what happens next. So, I decided to leave it as is and maybe edit it another day if I can get back in the writing groove.
> 
> I quoted another work in the title (muahaha). No hints this time, so bear-hugs to anyone who can guess the writer and title of the composition! Other than that, comments and critiques are very welcome as usual =)
> 
> Cheers


	11. A Heavy Rope (Around My Neck)

 

 

It was hard to describe the feeling. 

Maybe he was having some sort of dissociative experience, the kind that left your toes and fingers sluggishly numb, where you could watch your body from the loft in your head like a VIP seat at Gotham Stadium (not that he'd ever had one of those before). Roy probably would have called it _déja vu_. Kori would have dismissed it as something more practical, less significant, like surprise, denial, _shock_. He was reminded of the time he'd nearly broken his neck from what was supposed to be a basic training session in the Batcave. All because he wasn't _good_ enough. 

From his place next to a crater in the floor and the shattered remains of several clone incubators, Jason watched in a daze as the current holder of the Robin mantle pulled off a complex aerial move to dodge the massive bulk of machinery furiously charging at him. Jason bit back the knife-sharp pain in his side from the impact he'd taken and _holy mother of—_  that is a fucking _huge_ piece of metal sticking out of his gut. _Why_ the fuck did he let this happen to him (didn't dodge the angry, stampeding, truck-sized _tank_ like he was supposed to do)? As his eyes focused shakily on the blinking red dot behind the android's right leg, the memory clicked in his head. Right _. That's_ why.

In the wake of destruction across the lab, Damian was doing his best to lure the monstrosity to the other side of the lab, throwing stars and batarangs flying from his hands and bouncing harmlessly off the impenetrable skin, his heart pounding erratically in his chest from the exertion _—_  shift that way _—_ watch out for _—_   _shit!—_   _don't let it get too close—_  that monitor _—_   _use it—_

The moment Amazo's eyes started glowing, Damian leapt behind a console, the edges of his yellow cape singed only half a second later as the whole laboratory was drowned in a blinding explosion of red light. The android's laser vision melted a gaping hole into the floor and swung wildly sideways after the retreating boy, cutting through the console like butter. Damian was in motion again, twisting in the air as he leapt desperately sideways in an arc and the heat of the laser whipped under him less than an inch from his nose. Before the boy could recover, the robot was swatting the demolished wreckage aside like an annoying fly and suddenly on top of him.

" _Guh!_ " Damian grunted as Amazo snatched him up in a bone-crushing hold between his massive fists, squeezing him tighter than a stress ball. " _Uuaaagghhh!_ " Damian screamed.

_KA-BANG!_

Suddenly, the monstrous robot's right leg exploded causing it to keel sideways from its busted knee, and a bleeding Jason took the opportunity to jump in from his hiding spot and stab at the android's contracted fingers with his combat knife, prying open the metal digits. Damian sucked in a relieved breath of air as Jason hurriedly grabbed his arm and pulled him free from his restraints. The victory was short-lived, however, as Amazo recovered its balance in an instant and thrashed violently, pummeling both boys mid-jump and sending them flying across the room.

" _Grrrrrraaaaaaaauuuuuugggghhhhhhhh!_ " the robot's bellow shook the room as Jason and Damian bowled into another line of machinery, unmoving. 

Having not moved from his viewpoint on the other side of the lab, Ra's tutted in disappointment. "I expected better from you, Jason Todd. Amazo's eyes were unguarded, and yet you chose to save your partner over incapacitating the most deadly of the android's weapons." As he spoke, Amazo trudged purposely across the floor to loom over the beaten and broken bodies of his targets, two glowing red orbs crackling with energy on its face as it readied the finishing blow. "Do you have any last words?" Ra's inquired.

" _I do_."

All at once, there was a blur of red and blue, then _—boom!—_ Amazo was sent hurtling backwards, plowing a trench through the floor and half its body embedding in the wall that separated the main lab with the stasis pod storage area.

Floating in place in the center of the room, Superman turned to The Demon's Head with an intense glare. " _You lose, Ra's_ ," he said.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Talia." 

Batman and the woman he once loved, his youngest son's biological mother, _Talia al Ghul_ , stood before him with an expanse of space and memories between them. Only minutes ago, Black Bat had slipped away from his side at his signal, a curt nod which Cassandra read like an open book and made a beeline for the tunnel on the other side of the mezzanine. Talia didn't even spare the girl a glance as she swiftly sprinted past. 

For a hesitant moment, neither said anything, Talia holding the gun aloft and Batman standing so still he could have been sculpted from the surrounding darkness. Talia spoke first. 

"You have a question for me, Beloved?"

"... You're supposed to be dead," Batman stated, emotions, if any, drained from his voice. "Ra's tried to revive you, but to no success."

The woman's lips quirked up at one corner and Bruce winced internally at the familiarity of that confident smirk. "A minor detail," she replied. "How do you suppose I've come to stand before you otherwise?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

There was a heavy pause as the smoke from the wreckage and destruction across the laboratory filled up the space and both kryptonian and immortal regarded each other sharply, gaging the level of animosity between them. When Superman floated down to come face-to-mask with the villain, the man suddenly doubled over, shoulders shuddering with restrained amusement. 

"What's so funny?" The hero challenged. 

Ra's clutched his stomach as he chuckled, exaggerating the fake stitch in his side. "Oh, nothing of consequence," he breathed between gleeful huffs. "Only _this_."

A green glow filled Superman's vision. Clark had just enough time to reach out in surprise (because it was _impossible_ for this man to have this, his one begrudging _weakness_ —) to grasp the forearm of the gloved hand in front of him, clutching a lead-lined box full of kryptonite, before he felt the strength leave him like a sink hole beneath his feet and he collapsed to the floor from the sharp pain seeping through his body. 

"Imagine my surprise when I found such a trove of the curious rocks in Ivo's laboratories." Ra's stepped forward, stabbing his heel into Superman's outstretched hand. Superman only gritted his teeth, struggled against the pain through sheer force of will, and refused to give the villain the satisfaction of vocalizing his agony. 

With his victory assured, Ra's laughed fully now, whole without any semblance of control or refinery that The Demon's Head was known for. The sound was eerily _different_ , but Clark couldn't place whether he'd heard the voice before or if the excruciating nausea he felt from the kryptonite's draining energy was just making him hallucinate. 

"And here's another present the paranoid bastard left behind for you," the masked man taunted in a voice that was distinctly _not_ _Ra's al Ghul._ Hepulled out a syringe from his belt, holding it aloft in the dim light of the room to admire the green fluid inside and the thin, glowing green line of the needle that was definitely not made of any material from Earth. " _Liquid kryptonite_. Really, the man was a fucking genius. I'll take credit for the kryptonite needle, though, that was all my contribution. Ol' Lexy would have been proud. Or jealous. Oh, most _definitely_ jealous." The mysterious man crouched down, his boot still crushing Superman's hand underfoot as he held the syringe steady and unceremoniously plunged the needle into the kryptonian's neck. 

The effect was immediate. Clark's skin paled, his veins pronounced, tinged a sickly green, and his body started spasming even before all the liquefied kryptonite had been injected. 

" _Ugh—aaauuuugghh!_ " 

The man only laughed harder. "You were right, _Superman_. Ra's al Ghul lost. But, _I won_."

There was a strange whirring through the air and the man in the Demon's mask suddenly threw himself backwards as the syringe shattered, a batarang lodged in the floor where his hand was. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You're not the original. You're not the real  _Talia_. You're a clone." 

"Yes, I am."

"Why are you here?"

She answered resolutely, "To meet with my Beloved, of course. Won't you let me see your face one last time?" Talia stepped forward, steadily closing the gap between them while keeping her gun trained on the bat symbol on his chest. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The imposing shadow of the Black Bat dropped on top of the man, seemingly out of nowhere, and the villain was suddenly on the defensive under Black Bat's furious attack. When the man skillfully parried and trapped her arm for an arm-break, Cass fluidly used her momentum to launch herself forward, head-butting right between the eyes of the mask where the nose should be with a loud _crack_. 

The man reeled back, stunned, and Cass took the advantage with several punches and a vicious, spinning back-kick. The Demon's Head slammed into a work bench, crushing it and sending equipment flying every which way. 

"Surrender," Cass calmly pronounced as she approached him again and lifted the man out of the pile of junked machinery by the front of his jacket. 

The masked man's chuckles gurgled, wet with blood. " _Maybe—_ "

He pulled out a device from behind his back and promptly pressed a button. The next moment, Black Bat was flung sideways, trapped in the arms of _another_ Amazo, its metal skin gleaming new and unblemished. 

"— _Not,_ " he scoffed. He slowly rose to his feet, brushing off the dust and debris, when he suddenly twisted out of the way as a knife flew past his mask, managing to chop off one spiral horn. 

Jason stood before him, leaning heavily against one of the many clone tubes, one arm clutching his stomach and the other outstretched in the final motions of his toss. Ra's shrugged his shoulders and waved his arms out nonchalantly, gesturing at Jason's pathetic disposition as if the bruised, bleeding boy was solid proof of who would win this contest of wills. 

"A valiant, but wasted effort," he said, easily shifting back into Ra's' pristine nature. He clapped his hands for good measure. "I'll applaud you for persistence at the very least."

Jason's bloody grimace in reply was deliberately _not_ a result of the pain coursing through his body. "The knife wasn't for you, _jackass,"_  he spat. 

Ra's abruptly twisted around, just in time to glimpse Damian swinging the knife at his head as the weapon connected and the boy flew past in a blur. Time seemed to slow in that instant. Cass was leaping away with the second Amazo in hot pursuit, Damian landing on the ground in an offensive crouch, Jason staring furiously with wide-eyed focus, wishing, _wanting_ the face of the villain _not_ to match the voice he'd been hearing all this time—the man gripped the shattered pieces of The Demon's mask, falling between the cracks of his fingers. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the nose of the handgun clicked against his chest plate, Talia leaned bodily into The Batman's personal space, reached her other hand up to cup the exposed lower half of his cheek in an almost loving gesture. Her fingers found the catches in his cowl, deftly sliding the mask off, over his head, to reveal the aged, but handsome blue eyes of Bruce Wayne. 

"I love you, Bruce, my beloved."

Bruce's gaze was steadfast, unwavering in lieu of her barefaced confession. "Where is Jason, Talia?" He asked. 

"You know that I would go to the ends of the world to make you happy?" She stroked the contours of his face tenderly, almost melancholically. 

" _Talia_."

"There are so many... so many regrets..." she trailed off, eyes gazing through him at another time and place.

"What's done is done," Bruce interjected and grasped her wrist firmly, halting the gentle strokes along his temple. "You can't change the past on a whim. The consequences—"

"I confess, my love," she continued as if he hadn't spoken at all. "I was jealous of the first boy you adopted. I was jealous of them _all_."

Bruce closed his mouth abruptly, clamping in the words he was about to say. Talia pulled her wrist free from his grasp with ease and placed her palm reverently on his chest, right next to the gun. 

"I regret Damian being born in spite of my jealousies, my yearning. He should have been born by love, the one we used to share," she whispered.

His toned softened at her words, but echoed without pity. "... It was your choice. You chose to follow your father down the path of genocide. I _tried_ , Talia. To show you the good in this world."

Talia's clone scoffed derisively. "What _good?_ What _choices?_  The world we live in is a cruel, merciless place. We are all born pure, soft, dreams so easily tainted and scarred by life's hardships, by other's ambitions. By the time we have withered into decrepit shells of our former selves, it is too late to fix where everything went wrong and the noose looms closer, tempting you to end your pathetic existence sooner rather than later.

"There is no choice in the end, Beloved," the clone leaned her face upwards, planting a chaste kiss on Bruce's lips. Bruce tasted the metallic hint of blood. "No matter how much I—she— _Talia_ —strived to make her own choices," her voice shook, "No matter how her immortal father hoarded his weapons, his heirs, his Lazarus pits, or you, your meticulous plans and hypocritical allies who protect this— _this_ —"

Bruce reflexively reached out when the woman vomited, blood spilling from her mouth as she collapsed in his arms. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cass stabbed two batarangs into the eye sockets of her robotic opponent, her eyes glued to the face on the other side of the room. 

Damian snarled, breathed out a curse of  _I knew it_  through his nose as if all his suspicions were confirmed. 

Jason clenched his fingers into the gaping flesh-wound in his side, eyes burning numb and a persistent white noise in his ear. His brain flatlined. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce slowly lowered the dying clone in his arms to the floor, leaning her head on his shoulder. She struggled against her failing strength to reach up and grab a fist-full of his cape.  

"The choice was taken from me by the men who never truly  _loved_ me—" she choked, desperation written plainly on her face—"Neither _you_ nor my _father—_ I will never be a _mother_ , but I was selfish. When I found the boy, broken, a part of me wished, _wanted_ Jason to be my—my reason for saving— _please_ , Beloved—"

She started to shake, her body shivered, eyes rolling and more blood bubbled up from between her lips. 

"I should've known better," Talia used the last of her strength to pull Bruce's ear closer, to speak clearly. 

"My father was right. I know what burns in that boy's heart."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jason combed his fingers through his fringe, smearing blood from his forehead into the startling streak of white hair atop his crown as he took in his audience. He thumbed the blood dripping from his broken nose, wiped it carelessly on his emerald green cape and smiled. 

"What's wrong?"

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...
> 
> *grabs football helmet and hides under the bed*
> 
> I am ready for the flames. Give me your best shot, internet. Fair warning, I have a bunch of plot twists left up my sleeves and I am not afraid to use them! D:


	12. A Taste for Misfortune

 

 

 

_"That's **my** body, you fucking fake!"_

Jason grit his teeth as the force of the yell, the anger, wracked through his body. The room shook occasionally from the now-blinded Amazo as it continued to barrel through the lab in the background, angrily swiping at the Black Bat's heels. Cass was avoiding the tireless machine with an unbelievable display of skill and she had yet to take a sure hit, but the high-paced combat was definitely taking its toll on the ex-assassin. The thrashing limbs were too close for comfort, Damian noted, but kept his eyes forward. 

"You've been ignoring me since our last encounter, because you _knew_ I would notice," Damian growled. "My grandfather would at least have the courtesy to address his own grandson. That was your mistake,  _Todd_."

Young Jason felt his anger flare up another notch at the other boy's assumption, as if _Jason_ was the only obvious explanation for everything. He swayed sideways and grabbed the neck of Robin's cape and glared at him, nose to nose. "Did you fucking forget already?" he snarled. " _I'm_ the real Jason. _That—"_ he thrust his finger at the other Jason in the room, "—is _Ra's al Ghul_ in _my_ body."

Damian swatted the other boy's hands away, but said nothing more.

The man who, in all appearance, was the real Jason Todd, spoke up with a knowing smirk, the clear tenor of  _Jason's voice_ projecting through the air. The fucking bastard was _enjoying_ rubbing this in his face. 

"You're not wrong," he acknowledged, and there was a hint of something else he was hiding in those words that Jason couldn't put his finger on. "However, I'm no longer the Ra's al Ghul of the past seven hundred years. That man and his failed ambitions, his failed progeny, are history. I've been reborn."

"You think I give a fuck? Get your own reanimated corpse. That one's _mine,_ " young Jason snapped back. 

"Don't you remember?" He mused in reply. 

"Remember _what?_ How you stole my body, you sick bastard?"

Ra's shifted an arm beneath his cape as two pairs of eyes followed the movement with rigorous attention. "You agreed to this," he said. "You _wanted_ this. You asked for my assistance. I complied. And I must say, the outcome was much more in my favor than I expected. It was the catalyst that allowed me to finally see the larger picture, to strive for greater achievements. To _evolve_."

The next thing he knew, Jason felt the blind anger flood his vision, his thin hold on sanity bucking out of its cage before he could even grasp the reigns. 

_"You. Fucking. **Liar!** " _

The boy lunged forward with a sudden surge of energy, injuries forgotten as he finally reached for the handgun tucked behind his back—but Ra's was quicker. Jason reeled back and Damian dodged out of the way as Ra's whipped out his own gun and fired several careless shots in Jason's direction, the bullets ricocheting off the floor in a burst of sparks. 

"I may not have planned to uphold my end of the bargain from the beginning, but the situation has changed." Ra's shook _Jason's_ head condescendingly at him, and everything about the action felt so _wrong_. "I just so happened to come across a mutual acquaintance and took the liberty to eliminate the trash. Given your history with the man, I was generous enough to consider you a witness to this moment, when the world will be one step closer towards my Utopia," he said as he side-stepped towards a terminal by the wall, keeping his gun trained on the younger version of Jason on the floor. Damian eyed the enemy, his surroundings, muscles tensed as he allowed his supposed "grandfather" to rattle on while he searched for a suitable distraction, waiting for the right moment to pounce. 

Ra's punched in a quick command and a giant screen hanging on the wall at the head of the laboratory suddenly blinked to life. 

"The _clown_ sends his regards."

At those words, a shock of cold jolted down Jason's spine, paralyzing him to the spot. He forced himself to look up at the screen, lifting the disbelieving weight of his head, the joints and sockets of his body suddenly creaking with rust.

_It can't be. Why here? He's lying. Fucking liar. Fucking_ shit _._

The visual was grainy, low resolution, probably recorded by a security camera, and the skeletal shape of the body lying bound, crumpled, convulsing spastically on the floor of what appeared to be a prison cell could have been anyone—an underfed drug addict, a maximum security inmate, or any other dreg of society who wastes away in poverty or confinement for their heinous crimes against humanity. Even the face, as pale as it was indistinguishable through the monochrome camera, could have been anyone and Jason could make himself believe that the mottled, pixelated ouline that stretched from ear to ear where the mouth should be was just an exaggeration of his subconscious (haunted by faces where none existed). 

It could have been no one, someone, or something else entirely. But it was the hysterical laughter that gave it away, the one that rattled the chains from behind Jason's mental walls, ringing in his ears every time he woke up choking from the ghost of a crowbar digging deep into his chest. 

_HuhuhuhuhahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHA-EEYAHAHAHAHAHAhuhukkukukukukaha-fwooooooOOOOOOOOOOooowuhuhuhuhuuuu—_

_HA!_

 

 

* * *

 

 

"What now, Jason Todd?" Ra's drawled and smirked (one of Jason's shit-eating smirks). "My invitation is still open. Does the fire in your soul not yearn for retribution, for _revenge_ anymore?"

The horrendous laughter was still ringing through the air, _his head_ , as the man spoke and soldiers spilled onto the landing that wrapped around the edges of the laboratory, a line of rifles raised over the railing and leveled at each of them. Damian cursed as Cassandra gave up the chase, letting the android finally snatch her in its skeletal arms, its remnant wires and metal limbs restraining her in a vice-like bear hug. 

"The choice is yours," Ra's finished, settled with his hands clasped behind his back, and waited. 

_Join the cause or die_. Jason stared incredulously at the man, wondering how he so easily took the contradicting undertone of the statement in stride. Maybe not in the exact same way, like how the kid in his memory would always say _yes_  to the offer of warmth, food, a bed and a home, over a slow death by starvation, or a harsh beating that left you bleeding out like roadkill pushed into a gutter somewhere at the side of the road while passersby looked the other way. But it was close enough. Even if the promise of a better life came with a catch (and they _always_ did), it was the illusion of choice, that you were master of your own fate and not the kids on the block who made you feel worthless, a stick of gum under their shoe, or the grinning socialites who ran their fancy charities like a pastime, that moved Jason to grasp the hand that was offered to him all those years ago without a second thought. It had been a long time since Jason was gullible, _vulnerable_  enough to fall for such an obvious lie. 

He was twelve the last time it had happened. 

He wasn't twelve anymore and Jason knew better than to let anyone, good intentions or not, make all his choices for him, _for his own good_. After all, just because you know something isn't good for you, doesn't make it easy to stop craving it, _needing_ it. Which was why he took a step forward, two steps, four steps (the Demon Spawn wore a fuck-ugly snarl on his face, his body rooted in place by quivering lines of sight lasers on his chest; he could feel the penetrating eyes of The Black Bat prodding the back of his head); he was only half a step away from walking within reach of the new Demon's Head when all of a sudden, the lights flickered—and the room was swallowed up in darkness. 

The red beams of the rifles immediately scattered, sweeping the room frantically for the new threat. Then there was a deafening explosion, the dying groans of the Amazo and the blind shooting and screams started, and Jason knew everything was going to _hell_ now that The Batman had made his appearance. 

The Demon's Head laughed with genuine excitement as the emergency lights blinked on. "You finally decided to show yourself! Tell me, Batman, are you surprised? _Disgusted_ at what I've become? You've always known what I've been capable of, the lengths I'd go to for the right cause," he called out at the shadows around the room. 

Not waiting for an answer, Ra's quickly reached out and snatched the scruff of Jason's jacket, dragging him backwards into the passageway behind him. The boy barely caught a glimpse of the laboratory-turned-battlefield and Robin's colors flashing across his vision before the walls of the tunnel closed in around him.

Jason struggled to regain his footing as he was dragged along, but didn't fight the man's grasp—the voices in his head were murmuring, thinking, _planning_ for his next move carefully. He needed to conserve what little energy he had left, most of it already seeped out of the hole in his side, now throbbing painfully from the lack of adrenaline. The tunnel was quiet, only the shuffling sounds Jason's limp and the echo of heavy footfalls on the walkway ahead of him to break up the sudden silence—then he heard his own voice, not in his head, but the dark mutters of an embittered nineteen-year-old with no one to share his grievances with. 

"You and I could never walk the same line. If you won't kill that psychotic piece of filth _—_ _I will_."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Seven months, two weeks, three days, seven hours. As bullets peppered the walls and the surrounding snow, the nearby flashes of Kory's energy bolts and his arrows whistling through the air, Roy ticked off another mark in his head, a tally of how much time had passed since he had last seen his best friend, Jason Todd. 

There was nothing particularly outstanding or unusual about the day either. But for whatever reason—Roy's sharp instincts or annoying habit for hanging on to the minor details—he remembered the signs. Kory did as well. The hardened angle of the man's eyes as he stared at the computer screen, the irritable pacing, the harsh, irregular breathing, as if he were cutting wires on a time bomb with less than five seconds to detonate. For Roy, that was where everything started; Jason's sudden disappearance, the international incidents, all one-hundred-and-ninety-nine days and seven hours ago. 

Was he being too obsessive, counting down the days to the hour? Sure, why the hell not. When it comes to the people he considered family, Roy could admit to leaning towards the overprotective type, but he much preferred the cliché that described him and his friends more eloquently—Kory, him and Jay—the one where he was the proverbial frosting sandwiched in between two cookies, keeping all three snugly glued together. It was either the cookie analogy or the one where Kory and Jason were the indulgent parents and Roy, the clingy child with separation anxiety (and still wetting his bed on occasion, Jason would tease. It was actually _Kory's bed_ most of the time, but innuendos aside, Roy was more than happy to roll with the domestic vibe that seemed to settle between them). 

And if what they had going for their little ragtag team was something _more_ than just friends with benefits—benefits as in, a solar-powered tank in the form of a sexy alien princess, or a former Bat with  training in the art of assassination and a whole armory of weapons under his belt—then Roy would be the last to complain about the circumstances. After all, anyone who knew Roy well enough would know that _family_ was important to him (not the explosive perks that came after the fact).

Although Roy could admit, if this was several years ago, the idea of the whole team family thing would have been rather unexpected of him given his track record for self-destructive behavior and his all around _laissez-faire_ attitude towards life in general. Roy figured the fact that he was in a sexual relationship with one friend who was the ex-girlfriend of the other friend's supposed "older brother" who happened to be his ex-best friend, didn't really help argue his point either.

Yeah. It was complicated. 

Yet, he wonders sometimes how people in their business tended to conveniently forget how he was part of a different team once, a _Titan_. He even had an extended adopted family too, if anyone cared enough to look up his backstory (and if Oliver hadn't bothered to burn the paperwork by now after kicking him out for his drug-abusing habits). 

People often forget how he pulled his own head out of the water, quit cold turkey for the sake of his daughter when she came into his life.

And they easily forgot  _why_ he threw himself back in headfirst when she was gone. 

(Dead, buried, broken, _murdered_ ). 

That was a long time ago. At least for him, lately the past felt like miles away, worlds away where the noise of it was muffled into an easy silence more often than not. But then there were days when the distance between him and the past, the knife-sharp nostalgia, seemed like nothing (the point of a drawn arrow ready to shuck him between his eyes). Too close to ignore. 

Today (and the past one-hundred-and-ninety-nine days) was one of those days—especially after they realized that the shrunken version of their friend had run off on them _again_. 

A smoke bomb went off on the other side of the snow-covered courtyard and Roy rushed into the fray as Batgirl, true to her Bat instincts, appeared out of nowhere and swiftly incapacitated the disoriented soldiers with a flurry of kicks and strikes of her retractable staff. Roy only spared the staggering enemies a passing elbow to the jaw and a jab to the gut with his bow before heading for the entrance into the building and yelling over his shoulder at the fireball flitting above the battlefield. 

"Kory! I'm going after Jason!" he shouted. Starfire's only reply was an angry war cry as she swept through a line of grenades launched in her direction. The following explosive aftershocks buffeted Roy forwards and the man went tumbling over the threshold and sprawling into the foyer. 

Expecting a hostile welcoming party, Roy quickly rolled to the side for cover only to realize that the building was virtually empty. Huh.  _Guess we're not really worth the extra effort,_ Roy figured. 

Well, not like he was complaining. The _Goul_  guy might think of them as small fry, but if this was how he was planning to eliminate them as a threat, he was sorely underestimating how much Jason meant to them, how far they would take this fight to _get him back._ And yes, Roy still believed that the friend they'd been searching for all this time, long before Oracle had contacted them, was definitely that little kid he'd dove off a helicopter for without a jump line or a second thought. Even if he wasn't absolutely sure in that moment, or when he locked eyes with Oracle later on. There was absolutely no doubt left in his mind when he'd picked the kid up afterwards, knew how to rub his back comfortingly with a familiar weight in his arms while Kori flew ahead to retrieve the ship. 

_Sorry, Roy_ , the kid had mumbled stoically into his shoulder. 

And even as Roy replied with an airy, _It's cool, man_ , he knew the reason for the apology and why the kid pointedly kept his arms limp by his side. The memory of a different child in his arms was overwhelming him in that moment and if the kid had returned the embrace, he was sure his stomach would have heaved from the nauseating grief. 

_Only Jason, the sensitive bastard_ , Roy concluded, and that was his last train of thought as he moved to cross the hall before the ground beneath him suddenly shifted violently, throwing him off his feet once more. A loud groan rumbled through the air and Roy whipped his head around in time to see the white courtyard sinking inwards and the soldiers pulling a hasty retreat, snow falling over the edge of the rapidly expanding hole in the ground. 

Roy recognized what was going on in an instant; it was a gate, previously hidden beneath layers of snow over the entire space they were currently standing on.

Roy quickly rushed back to the entrance and skid to a halt at the threshold to gape down into what appeared to be a massive hangar. Kory was hovering warily over the opening while Stephanie had moved to perch on an outcrop along the edge of the grounds. Another thunderous blast shook the earth, an explosion similar to the one they heard when they'd landed on the island—

And before anyone to could make the first move, a blurred figure shot up from the depths below and Starfire could only brace herself for the oncoming impact. A crushing _smack_ echoed over the complex from two simultaneous hits—Kory had countered the hostile's fist to her jaw with a punch of her own—and the two airborne fighters veered off uncontrollably through the air. 

Roy cursed profusely when he caught a good look at the flying enemy—an _Amazo_. 

"Well fuck. This day really couldn't get any worse—"

And no sooner had the words left his mouth than the situation _did_ drop several rungs on his shitty-day-meter from bad to _worse_. 

What rose up from the depths below next was a giant aircraft, the likes of which Roy had never seen before. As the vehicle steadily came into view, Roy was able to make out three figures hanging from a line under the open hatch of the aircraft. The smaller one dangling at the end of the line was obviously the little Jay-bird (that solves at least one of their problems); next, Roy was only marginally surprised to recognize the iconic cape-and-cowl of The Batman steadily climbing ahead of him (which added another problem to the bucket list, bringing them back to square one). Roy readied a jumpline.

That was when he got a better look at the man climbing at the top of the line and into the open hatch as the aircraft lifted upwards. It was the unmasked face of the green-caped man.

His hold loosened on the bowstring, taut body deflating as the gears in his brain turned, connecting the dots from his friend's abnormal child-like appearance to the bad guy who was _supposed_ to be responsible for this entire mess in the first place. Roy was denying the sudden crack in his confidence that _cloning_ was not the only explanation for little-Jason and really, only Jason would get himself into some crazy-shit trouble involving _body-swapping_  or _magic_ or _mind control,_  if that explained what Roy was seeing with his own eyes. Roy really wished that was the case because—

Only Jason. _That fucking bastard._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here it is, chapter 12. Not exactly how I hoped it would turn out, but I've been trying to set up for the coming chapters ahead. Honestly, I hit a bad case of writer's block which is why it took so long (my engrish skillz aye dios mio asdfghjkl... @_@).
> 
> I managed to sneak in one quote from the _Under The Red Hood_ animated movie (and most likely the comic, can't recall right now...), and a quote from the famous French philosopher/writer, Albert Camus in the title of the chapter.
> 
> Paying my respects and my support to the victims of the recent attack on Paris, I leave with this quote from Monsieur Camus:
> 
> "In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back."
> 
> There is controversy on where the second part of this quote came from, but regardless, the message is a good one. Now go hug your family, your friends, and share your love and respect with everyone - because we all deserve it.
> 
> Cheers


	13. I Believe in a Cruel God

 

  
_Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman, your Honor. Before we begin, I ask that you take a moment to reflect with me on our loved ones—your brothers and sisters, mother and father, your wife, your husband, and your children—and how much you love them. Now, imagine that every single one of you, the moment you stepped into this room, will be dead before the end of this trial. Shot, bludgeoned, poisoned, butchered at the hands of the faceless serial killer who sits among us now. Those hopeless feelings of pure terror are the last thoughts of every victim who has ever been tortured and killed by this man, who calls himself the Joker._

_The case I am to present to you today is not an unfamiliar one. Whether from the news, the front page, or witnessed with your own eyes, it is a story of unspeakable horrors, pain and suffering of an unsurmountable scale, and fear that has gripped the nation, the globe, in every moment of this man's wake. Since his sudden appearance in Gotham City in the eighties, the Joker has been charged with countless crimes of violence, embezzlement, and above all else, mass murder for over two decades in over thirty states across the country, as well as several countries around the world. Upon his initial arrest by the Gotham City PD and the vigilante, Batman, the Joker stood trial and was committed to Arkham Asylum psychiatric ward by the state on reason of insanity. Since then, the man has escaped confinement on numerous occasions, spreading fear and bloodshed, amassing media attention and misguided followers_ _—_ _supporters, even_ _—_ _tallying more victims than any serial killer in the history of mankind. Five years ago, the Joker was detained by the JLA after attempting to poison the ambassadors at the United Nations headquarters in New York City and deemed unfit for trial, only to escape several months later; then, three years ago, he returned to Gotham City where over twenty more bodies were sent to the grave before the man was, once again, arrested and judged to be mentally unfit for trial._

_Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, common law dictates that the insanity defense must be upheld within the federal court. Given the magnitude of repeat offenses of the defendant, the supervision of the federal court was requested by the state for this trial on special conclusive terms_ _—_ _terms that will either commit him to a lifetime admittance to a federal psychiatric penitentiary, or a sentence to the Death Penalty. On behalf of the prosecution and the innocent victims of twenty years past, we ask you to find the defendant sane and guilty of all charges, that the defendant has not met their burden of proof. Thank you._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Leap. Counter. Right jab. Left hook. Cross. Sweep. Retreat. _Find Jason_.

As Batman ploughed his knuckles into the temple of one more unfortunate mercenary, he assessed the room in his periphery. He had freed The Black Bat by quickly shooting explosive clay in the exposed plating at the Amazo's neck and retreating to blast its head off, and now the former assassin was dropping soldiers left and right, slowly making her way towards the youngest member of their group who was mercilessly cracking heads over every hard surface he could find; Superman lay unconscious on the other side of the room where a suspicious-looking puddle was emanating a sickly green glow... Batman intercepted The Black Bat, caught her arm easily and, without breaking her flow of attack, swung her like a mace at a troop of soldiers attempting to box them in, knocking them down like dominoes. 

"You and Robin—take Superman with you and retreat," he grunted as the girl landed gracefully back on her feet. 

She frowned. "No."

"That's an order, Black Bat," Bruce growled, disarming a pair of taser batons and pummeling several more enemies as he swept through their ranks. 

Cass side-kicked one soldier's semi-automatic off target, sending a spray of bullets up into the air before she delivered a brutal axe-kick to finish him off. " _No_ ," she persisted stubbornly.

"Superman has been poisoned," The Batman raised his voice impatiently. "He's alive, but not for much longer. A League EMS response team should be here soon. I'm counting on you to save an ally."

Black Bat huffed as she vaulted over Batman's shoulder to throw a flurry of batarangs at two unsuspecting snipers, who cried out in surprise before Robin neatly kicked them over the edge of the landing, crushing a line of computers below in a flash of sparks. When not a single soldier present was left standing, unconscious bodies scattered about the room, Black Bat finally turned to her mentor and father figure with a reluctant sigh.

Although she rejected the violent teachings forced on her by David Cain and the League of Assassins, it was moments like this where Cass appreciated the extra insight that came with reading body language instinctively, where The Batman's closed expression, the urgency, the _anxiety_ in his stiff posturing showed off all the cracks in his confidence. How everyone misinterpreted this as silent judgment, she'll never understand— the signs spoke more volumes than words could ever describe to her.  _Don't die. I need to do this. I need to save him. Don't die. Keep everyone safe. I trust you._ Don't die.

"Fine," she finally relented, but gave him a hard glare, locked eyes with him from behind their masks to convey how much the arrangement disagreed with her and a silent warning to return in one piece. 

Batman simply nodded his head in acknowledgment before taking out his grapple and shooting a line at the upper level where Ra's' men had entered from. As he vaulted over the edge, he found his way blocked by a disgruntled Robin standing defiantly before him with a deep furrow in his brow. For a moment, Bruce had half a mind to berate the boy for recklessly chasing after the enemy without backup. Then there was a small part of him that worried over the freely bleeding contusion at the boy's hairline and the way he tried to hide the slouch in his right side (definitely a few broken ribs, hidden beneath the yellow cape), but the rational voice in his mind argued away his concerns given the lack of any signs of circulatory shock or serious head trauma. Nothing permanent or life-threatening. The boy would throw a fit if he favored him for anything less. 

"... We have much to discuss, Father," Damian announced. "However... an explanation _after_ you have retrieved Todd would suffice."

Of all the reactions that his son was capable of (an airing of grievances, a bold monologue that singled out every fault worth and not worth mentioning, and _no, that is not how things should be done_ ), patience was the least likely response Bruce expected and he felt the lecture about to leave his lips die out in surprise. The dignified, no-nonsense Damian Wayne, letting his foolish father slip away without demanding an explanation? Bruce _almost_ couldn't believe his own ears. And maybe there was a time when Bruce would have taken it for granted, the effort the boy was making to be more considerate, to change himself for his sake. 

He was suddenly reminded of all the times he'd failed them all— an orphaned young acrobat, holding back his hurt feelings and his Father's Day gift after Bruce's blunt rejection ( _too soon_ ); or a boy who understood too much, training and working to the point of collapse in his attempt to earn Bruce's approval ( _never again_ ); but, perhaps it was better compared to that boy from Crime Alley, out of his element, trying to live up to Dick's legacy— to be the ideal partner ( _when he should have been a_ son _..._ )

The fact that he now saw how much his youngest son had matured over the past years, how much he tried to _understand_ , made Bruce suddenly realize how proud he was of him—how Damian overcame the prejudiced expectations laid out for him since birth and became a respectable person in his own right. And also, how much Bruce regretted the years he spent in self-imposed solitude, the chances he lost to accept the people who suddenly became affixed to his life, to that lonely boy and his surrogate father in a too large, too empty house filled with too much loss. The children who became something more than just _partners_.

In a lapse of character, Bruce reached out, cradled the back of Damian's head carefully, brushed his hand reassuringly through the short hair and hoped the boy understood his sentiment. It would have to do for now. 

And if the incredulous look that passed briefly over his son's face was an indicator, he knew that things would be different when he returned. Bruce found himself surprisingly unconcerned over this sudden change in perspective as he continued into the tunnel beyond. No matter how hard he tried to nip the thought at the root, the idea, the blind sense of hope was already cycling through the back of his mind and gaining momentum. 

_If Damian can change... If_ _**I** can change... then Jason..._

 

 

* * *

 

 

"The prosecutors certainly made a good show of it. A shame though, how futile their efforts were."

Ra's moved ahead, leaving Jason to stand precariously on his own in the middle of the massive hangar filled with various technologies and vehicles. Jason was feeling lightheaded by this point and _shit_ , he was losing too much blood. He won't last long enough with his consciousness taking a nosedive, but he'd come this far already and Jason was determined not to miss this opportunity handed to him on a silver platter. 

Because the last chance he'd had to kill that sick fucker, he had been too caught up in self-satisfaction, catering to that grief-stricken, justifiably angry boy that wanted an utterly  _complete_ revenge. So he'd let the clown go, and the next time he had both his killer and Batman right where he wanted them, the Batman was slicing his neck open with a batarang. _To save the fucking Joker._  

What a load of crap.

That night felt like ages ago and since then, Jason's pit-induced hysteria had calmed ( _somewhat_ ) to a manageable murmur in a corner of his mind and he had enough clarity not to make the same mistake again, although body-swapping with Ra's al Ghul wasn't helping in that respect. And now, Jason was _finally_ starting to remember what happened, the infamous final judgment made almost a year ago, one piece of the puzzle to why he was standing here at this moment in a cloned body.

People called the court trial the Joker's so-called _last chance_. In the end, it only proved how apathetically subjective the system had become. The Joker had played them all for fools. 

But Jason knew the truth and nothing on this godforsaken earth could take that away from him. _No more mistakes_. 

Jason limped after the man who had stolen his body as workers went about preparing some sort of high-tech airship for takeoff. He pulled himself to stand upright next to the other man. "I remember the trial," he stated bluntly. "They dragged on for a fucking year. I watched every session."

"Then you recall the premises of your agreement with Ra's al Ghul?"

"Of course not. Who fucking cares about that? As long as you give me my body back and free all those innocent people after this shitstorm goes down, I won't hold any grudges."

Ra's' lips quirked up in a half-smirk and Jason had to hold back his disgust at how creepy that smile looked on his own face. The immortal was holding back information, was obviously making no effort to hide it, but really, Jason was in no position to interrogate. 

"I'm afraid the freedom of my samples is nonnegotiable. Indefinitely. How else do you suppose I can remake society into my ideal Utopia otherwise? I've tried to genetically modify the clones with personality adjustments in their sequencing, but sadly the clones were flawed. They had a morbid tendency to deteriorate before the microchips could activate them. Thus, I am curious to know how yours has lasted as long as it did."

"Give me back my _real_ body, and you can experiment all the fuck you want with _this_ one."

Jason knew he was taking a chance, baiting one of the most controversially powerful men on the planet. One day he'll have to learn to stop throwing oil on the fire when the bonfire of a problem in his hands was already burning out of control. This time, however, he didn't get a chance to see the trouble he was inadvertently inviting— they were interrupted by the sudden burst of gunfire, cutting their conversation short. 

" _Take off!_ " Ra's shouted abruptly. The airship thundered to life as Ra's stalked towards it and Jason stumbled after him as quickly as he could. He was feeling a second rush of adrenaline as the distant shouting of the battlefront caught up with them, suddenly _right behind him_ and the gun that was subconsciously in Jason's twitching fingers before he realized it was being knocked out of his hands as he twisted around—and he was suddenly standing in the shadow of the Bat.

" _Jason_ —"

" _Fuck you,_ Bruce. You _lied_ to me!" the boy howled back in his face.

Jason shifted back, trying to put some space between them, which was a futile effort on his part because the next thing he knew Batman was lunging at him with what felt like a punch to his injured gut (but was actually a tackle), and his world toppled sideways as the man somersaulted out of the way of a spray of bullets with Jason squeezed tight to his side. A jolt of pain stabbed through his body, leaving him gasping for air. 

By now the airship was hovering several feet above them, the hangar ceiling rolling back to reveal the swirling white snowstorm outside. Standing beneath the airship, Ra's reared back the rifle in his arms and took aim again.

"How obsessive. By the way you cling to that clone of your dead protégé like a lifeline, I'd say you are growing senile in your old age. Are you trying to convince yourself that you can make amends with the boy you've already spurned? I'm standing right here, _father!_ " Ra's pitched his voice mockingly. 

Batman's face remained impassive. If he was perturbed by the jeering comment, it didn't show. "It's over Ra's. As we speak, your operations in the Pacific and the Middle East are being routed by the Justice League."

The immortal laughed. "You honestly believe that will stop me? The civil war in Western Asia and the aberrant weather were simply distractions. I've been operating this cloning project for much longer, undetected—that is, until I made the mistake of deploying my cloned subjects too soon. Haste makes waste, as the saying goes."

Ra's fired another round, to which Batman dodged again and Jason felt his stomach lurch horribly as he was unwillingly dragged along with him. Ra's' next words projected over the crates they were hiding behind, directed at him. 

"It seems you will have to escort yourself to the venue. _Don't be late_."

A jump line was tossed out of the open hatch at the back of the airship, which Ra's caught deftly in his hands. Exchanging his rifle for a radio, he gave another order:

" _Send out the third. Clear a path."_

The groans of another hangar door opening shook the building, and who would have guessed it—an _Amazo_ rocketed up through the open ceiling and Jason held back an exasperated sigh. You would think the evil genius responsible for creating these killer androids would have been more tactful in keeping his secret experiments a _secret_. What kind of genius hides all his assets in one location? Then again, they called them _mad scientists_ , not _rational scientists,_ for a reason. 

Batman turned to Jason, who was currently a boneless slump over the larger man's forearm like a wet towel. He carefully shifted the boy to lean against the crate, moved Jason's hand into pressing an ABD pad into the wound in his side, then with a clipped, " _Stay here_ ," he was sprinting full throttle after Ra's retreating form as the aircraft lifted off. Jason took all of zero seconds to think, _Fuck this shit_ , and he was back on his feet in an instant, his muscles coiling tightly from the waves of pain radiating from his core. The pained moan in the back of his throat escaped before he could clench his teeth around it, but he was already moving, almost subconsciously sprinting after Batman and the villain currently controlling his body.

Everything happened in a flash. Batman was leaping off a crate to catch the tail end of the jump line; Jason leaped after him; he managed to grasp a hand-full of black cape before they were propelled upwards and he felt his stomach drop from the acceleration as the airship lifted off. The force was so strong that Jason's small fingers slipped through the heavy material— he caught a split look of horror on The Batman's masked face, an arm reaching down for him before he swung his own arms out wildly and by some stroke of luck, managed to catch the last length of the cable, shredding his gloves on the metal fibers as he slid down another foot and came to a stop. 

A blast of icy wind cut across his face and the aftershock from a deafening  _boom!_ nearby rocked the line violently like a strip of ribbon in the wind. Jason hung on with all his might, had to clench his eyes shut from the onslaught of sleet razing his skin. When he managed to peek through his eyelids, Batman was sliding down the rope towards him, silhouetted by a flaming streak in the sky left behind by Starfire as she clashed fists with the android, zigzagging off towards the city, which was quickly shrinking into the distance and soon swallowed up by the turbulent sea of white. 

Jason couldn't resist as Batman wrapped an arm around him and in a feat of strength and skill, began climbing up the line one-handed, inch by inch, even as the drag from the wind against them picked up from the speed of the airship. Jason wanted to scream at him, grab Bruce's collar and throttle him senseless— _just let me fall_ , _it's my own fucking fault if I die here_ ; _you let me die once already, what's so hard about the second time?_ — but, the breath was sucked from his lungs by the rushing wind, leaving him weak and wordless. 

Batman shifted steadily up the rope as quickly as he could, grunting from the effort while ahead of them, Jason's familiar adult figure stood at the edge of the open hatch, rifle raised and ready. Watching.

"To think, I once held nothing but the utmost respect for you," Ra's called out from his position, the bitterness in his tone projected perfectly through the gale of swirling snow and for a moment, Jason's thoughts staggered, almost unable to tell the difference between Ra's' voice and his own (the ones that whispered morbid nothings in his head on bad days, or the one that spoke back to him when he could stand to face himself and what he had become— _a failure,_ but never _a victim_ — in the mirror on better days). "Seeing the proud, resolute defender of justice, _The Dark Knight_ , turn his back on a threat because he was _worried?_  Because your antiquated sense of morality won't let you leave a _soldier_ behind? How pathetic."

He fired a shot and Batman gasped, faltered, slid back several feet. From his place tucked under Batman's arm, Jason reached out for the line in a brief panic, before cursing profusely when something wet, other than snow, flecked the side of his head. Because that was _blood_ trickling out of the hole in the Batman's chest and _the motherfucker was using armor-piercing bullets._

"If you had left well enough alone, your nemesis, the bane of your existence, your two greatest failures would have been aptly disposed of, absolutely. And _that_ trial was the greatest failure of humanity of the century. If you disagree, perhaps I should simply take you out along with the trash then, if that is how much you care about  _the Joker_." Ra's smoothly changed the magazine in his rifle and lifted the nose of the gun once more. 

"Goodbye, Bruce."

All at once, Bruce was shouting something and Ra's was pulling down on the trigger, but Jason had already reached into the holster in his side long before either party had realized. With his knife in hand, he used a burst of his remaining energy at the last second to spring forward and slice cleanly through the wire above Bruce's grasp just as the flash of the gun-barrel went off, missing Bruce's skull by a hairsbreadth. 

They were whipped away by the wind in an instant and there was a yank on his collar that must have been Bruce, but really could have been anything at this point as he was jerked every which way at the mercy of the raging blizzard.

Jason passed out at some point between the fear, the cold tendrils of death, and the roaring in his ears like a white explosion in a deserted warehouse, far from home. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_... Chelsea, as one of the surviving hostages that witnessed the Joker in those moments, would you say that his actions while attacking that man caused the Joker distress or was his behavior consistent with his words, the goal that he was attempting to achieve?_

_Objection. That's a loaded question requiring psychoanalysis which the witness is not qualified to answer. He is calling for speculation and an opinion._

_Sustained._

_Rephrase. Chelsea, can you describe to the jury the Joker's response after attacking the victim?_

_He—... There was... a lot of blood. There were pieces... everywhere... his clothes were soaked. He wasn't exactly... disgusted by it, but he didn't like the... bloodstains either. He... h-he_ licked _his fingers a-and said..._

" _My!_ But that was _fun!_ Kind of _messy_ though."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T_T...
> 
> This chapter took _way_ more research than I probably needed. As you can probably tell, I've never been to an actual court trial before, or watched any proceedings on television, but I was inspired by the closing remarks of the judge who sentenced a terrorist from the Boston Marathon bombings. I found it very honest, impartial, and spoke a lot about what it means to be human. If you are interested, you can read the remarks [here](http://time.com/3934639/dzhokhar-tsarnaev-judge-trial-boston-bombing/).
> 
> In his remarks, he also quotes an aria from the famous Italian opera, _Otello_ , which I used for the title of this chapter called, _Credo in un Dio crudel_. You can listen to it [here](https://youtu.be/Uq517L5XdS4). 
> 
> In other dark news, I also found this particular scene rather gruesome for a comic of the time: [Warning. There is blood and implied death of a minor. Click at your own discretion.](http://40.media.tumblr.com/e44036c7fa664a8233f019eb33f36b3e/tumblr_mseihuGWVN1rur0aro3_500.jpg)
> 
> On a side note, I made reference to certain events in the comics surrounding the Joker infiltrating the United Nations, so if something sounded familiar about that, but didn't quite feel exactly the same, you were right! (that was just me waving my creative licence again, making things a little less bizarre in context). 
> 
> ... Wow. Sorry guys. I hope I can lighten the mood a bit for the next chapter T_T. Don't mind me and the drama! Best wishes and hope you all have a Happy New Year!


	14. The Star to Every Wandering Bark

 

 

 

As the Black Bat trudged through the disaster zone in the aftermath of the Amazo's attack on the city of Yakutsk, she clutched the trembling toddler in her arms a little tighter. She had salvaged the boy from the wreckage, one of the few unfortunate individuals who couldn't evacuate in time upon the arrival of the Justice League before the fierce battle between Starfire and Dr. Ivo's superpowered creation had reached the shore. The two combatants had collided with the downtown area, leaving trenches through the frozen streets and smashing multiple buildings into rubble like jenga blocks. The boy was lucky, escaping with nothing worse than a few scratches, bruises, and a gash on the sole of one foot.

The fires had long been snuffed out by the snowstorm that still blustered through the region, coating the mounds of rubble and upturned cars in a thick cover of white and forming deep snowdrifts in gouged-out sections of the earth. By some miracle, the bridges were left intact, allowing rescue services to reach the affected areas, but there were other pockets of wreckage yet untouchable without hours of digging ahead of them. The process was thankfully underway with heroes from the Justice League on site to help search through the debris for survivors. 

Passing by an open area, Cassandra regarded the empty remains of what was once a playground with a heavy weight in her chest. She didn't blame Starfire—the Amazo was consequently the alien princess's weakness, built to absorb meta-human powers such as hers to begin with. And even under that kind of pressure, she had still managed to lure the monstrosity away from the main hub of the city while under heavy attack, energy bolts and laser beams fired every which way in attempts to melt each other's skin off. She was finally able to bury the robot in an icy grave at the bottom of the river after ripping out its power source and tearing its limbs off for good measure. So no, the angry, indignant feelings that burdened Cass while she assisted the relief effort was not because of the collateral damage that they had tried their best to avoid. Her blood was boiling for an entirely different reason.

Cass' attention drifted back to the child in her arms, who was staring avidly at the jungle gym still standing somewhat upright in the snow. The way the boy's heart fluttered told Cass that he had yet to recover from the frightful experience, even though he hadn't cried, hadn't made a sound since she had found him trapped under debris several meters deep and huddled on a broken bed too big to be his. The bed most likely belonged to his parents— parents that were nowhere to be found. At the time, Cass had been relieved at the possibility that the child's parents could have escaped the crumbling building alive, to know that the child hadn't had to watch helpless as the most important people in his young life were crushed under tons of falling concrete. But the truth was much more worse than she had imagined.

The boy tangled his tiny fingers into the thick collar of her cape, pushing his cheek into her neck as if he were terrified of letting go, but the former Batgirl could tell what the child wanted so badly. His eyes, wide and bright, longed for something in the playground, something important. As the Black Bat changed directions, headed for the colorful wooden horse attached at one end of a seesaw, she thought about how the child's parents must have brought him here many times before. 

_Those_ _horrible, horrible_   _parents_ , she thought bitterly, not knowing how else to describe the dark, empty feelings that seemed to squeeze around the space where her heart should be. 

Cass brushed off the layers of snow blanketing the seesaw and perched the barefooted boy on the wooden horse with a thermal blanket folded snuggly around him. After considering for a pause, Cassandra took a seat behind him, watched him lean forward and wrap his short arms around the horse's neck with a content sigh, and for the first time since she had stormed out of the relief camp with the boy in tow, Cass felt at ease. That tightness in her chest had been plaguing her perhaps even further back, since she had watched the fiery explosion from across the shores of the Lena river as she and Robin waited with an unconscious Superman, Arsenal, and Batgirl for the Justice League to pick them up— since Batman had disappeared from the laboratory, rushed into the unknown and didn't come back. Maybe ever since the Red Hood had killed her informant in Hong Kong, no traces left behind except for obscure intentions and abandoned scorch marks on a rooftop. 

_Abandoned_. And there it was again, before Cass could breath easy. That clouded, unpleasant clench in her chest, a monster trying to claw its way out from between her ribs. Tim had told her once that it was normal to feel this way, to be _angry_. When she had curiously looked him in the eye, questioned why _she_ could be angry— why Dick let Tim and Damian take their frustrations out on each other on the training mats (as long as no sharp objects were involved), why Stephanie could argue heatedly with Barabara over how they should execute a sting operation, why Bruce and Dick could yell at each other for hours on end until their faces fumed red— but why it wasn't okay for _Jason_ to be angry, Tim was quiet for a long moment. His face had morphed into that emotionless look he often wore when choosing his next words carefully, about to explain a complicated idea, or working on a particularly puzzling piece of evidence. She never minded that look. Tim was always patient, always honest when he was in that mindset, and not everyone appreciated the harsh truths he revealed when he finally opened his mouth next, and sure, he could come across rather blunt and insensitive (like Bruce in many ways), but Cass knew it was just a fact of being _Tim_.

He wouldn't be her hopelessly rational, adopted brother otherwise if he hadn't sincerely told her:

_Jason's not mentally or emotionally... stable right now. You know what those words mean, right? A lot of bad things have happened in his life and the only way he knows how to relieve his distress is to get angry in very unhealthy, dangerous, destructive ways. How do I explain it? You could say he's sick. In here—_  he tapped pointedly at his temple _—because of what he feels in here—_ he took her hand, moved her palm over his chest where she could feel his heartbeat. 

And that's when Cass understood why no one in her adopted family could ever successfully reach out to their outcasted member, why he caused them all so much grief. She knew what it was like to be trapped in your own head with no means of communication with others, letting your convoluted thoughts and feelings rot away inside you because you have no better way to dispel them. You become the embodiment of isolation. 

That was why she wasn't angry at her wayward older brother whom she had rarely ever spoken with, for all the terrible things he had done after returning from the dead. All she knew was that she was angry after Tim had told her the story of Jason Todd, the boy whose parents ruined their impoverished family chasing their own wants and needs (drugs and money and material things), leaving him to fend for himself, and a mother who knew exactly what her son's fate would be after trading him over to a madman in exchange for her own well-being. And for the exact same reasons, Cass was angry now for the boy she had rescued, whose parents he had reached out to at the relief camp, but didn't spare him a glance in the moment as they huddled fearfully with the other citizens, too oblivious to their surroundings to notice them standing only several feet away. Cass could see it in their eyes, the selfish fear for their own lives and that's when she realized they had _abandoned_ the boy when their building collapsed in the chaos. As if he were an expendable item. 

And Cass knew what it felt like to be expendable, knew the difference after having Bruce for a father, to teach her what real, loving parents _should_ be like. 

(Not cold, uncaring wardens, raising you, training you, because you were a necessary _burden_ ). 

The boy in front of her started kicking his feet as if pretending the wooden horse was trotting away, and because Cass didn't want him to aggravate his injured foot she grabbed hold of the handles and pushed off her feet gently so that the horse popped free of the snow. As they bounced soothingly up and down on the seesaw, she imagined the horse was galloping off into the distance where no one, not even horrible parents and the betrayed, frustrating  _hurt_ could catch up to them. Cass hummed along to a song she'd often heard her brother singing to the children he saved when disaster struck. 

They stayed liked that for long while, enough time for the wind to pick up suspiciously and settle again into the muted sounds of falling snow and rhythmic creaking of the seesaw. The moment was interrupted when Cass' sensitive hearing picked up the approaching, telltale crunch of feet in the snow long before the person in question entered the park through the broken archway behind her and she instantly knew who it was by the purposeful sounds they made to make their presence known. The footsteps halted right next to them. 

"Hm... I somehow feel compelled to buy you a real pony for your birthday this year."

"White. With brown spots, please," Cass replied curtly. 

Nightwing chuckled. "Pinto or Appaloosa?" he replied smoothly, not trying to tease her, since he knew she probably didn't know what those color types meant yet, but to give her the satisfaction of finding out their meanings on her own later. 

For now, Cass pinched her chin and scrunched her face as if she were seriously considering the option. "Hm..."

The man laughed harder this time, drawing the toddler's curious gaze. He reached out a hand, then thought better of it and pulled back to take off his icy glove before reaching out again to run in his fingers through the child's feather-light hair and thumb his cheeks.

"So, little sis," Dick started, "Where were you and the kid heading off to?"

"... Gotham... Alfred..."

"Oh?"

" _Home_ ," she amended.

"Ah."

Cass said nothing else while Dick watched them continue hopping up and down a few more times. He pulled his glove back on and trekked over to the other side of the seesaw, pushed the snow off the second wooden horse and gently tipped the plank down for himself to take a seat. Cass and the child were lifted higher in the air and the boy giggled happily.

When Dick looked up, his mouth pressed into an apologetic smile, melancholic as he regarded his sister sitting across from him. "In our line of work, it's easy to imagine a world where everyone values the same principles." He kicked off the ground to let Cass' side tilt down again and the boy lifted his arms up to the sky with a joyful squeal. "We spend all of our time and energy trying to do the right thing, risking our lives to make sure innocent people are safe from the evil of others that we forget about what being _normal_ means to everyone else. We expect good people to get along, care about their neighbors, their families, in the same way we do, when in reality not everyone thinks the same way. Being compassionate makes you vulnerable; being mortal in a world where there's so much against you and your own happiness, can kill your dreams—can get _you_ killed. One wrong move, and that's the end. It's hard to be brave in a world as unforgiving as ours."

Cass wasn't looking directly at him, opting to pet the child in her lap, scratch behind his ears like one would for a cat.

"To love... is not difficult," she mumbled.

"You're right. It's not," Dick nodded, knowing that Cassandra Cain was one of the most caring, empathetic people he knew despite the atrocities she had endured in her short lifetime being raised by the League of Assassins. And the fact that she risked her life every night, fighting against evil in the world like the rest of them. 

"Harder to forgive."

He agreed wholeheartedly, "Yeah. It is."

Cass finally lifted her eyes on him and Dick could feel the intensity of her gaze through the mask, perceptive beyond her years. "Does Jason forgive?" she asked.

The question didn't exactly catch Dick off guard, but Cass always had a way of implying so much more meaning within the span of a few words. Out of everyone in the family, Jason was always the example, which was a sad thought in and of itself. Did Jason forgive Willis Todd and Catherine Todd for not loving him enough to dig themselves out of poverty and try to raise a normal family? Did he forgive Bruce and Dick for the little ways they rejected how he tried to do _good_ with his first life, for bringing him into the fold for all the wrong reasons? Did he forgive Sheila Haywood, his real mother, for giving in to blackmail against her ill-gotten livelihood, for having a hand in his own murder? To be honest, Dick wasn't confident he could say _Yes_ to any of those questions and he couldn't bring himself to lie either. Instead, he answered, "Let's give him a reason to."

When Cass touched down on her side of the plank once more, Dick hopped off  his seat without jostling the seesaw and trudged up to his adopted sister to give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

"Come on. Let's go back," he said. 

Cass would find out the whole story later, how the child's parents had both been out in the city working their full-time jobs respectively, while the child had been at home with the babysitter; the babysitter had fled in a panic when the quakes started, the parents had evacuated with the rest of the citizens, and no one had bothered to look back and think twice about certain missing children. When the Black Bat and Nightwing arrived back at the relief camp, the parents broke off their flustered conversation with another group of civilians, marginally more coherent than they were hours earlier,  and seemed genuinely happy to be reunited with their boy. They watched the boy embrace his parents, watched the family wander off while tightly wrapped around each other, and that's when Cass decided that maybe there was some truth to Dick's logic. 

But even if she could accept the reality that not everyone had the same capacity for love, Cass would never agree with making excuses like that. For her, just the fact of being human, being _alive_ , already made you responsible.

To give up that responsibility for whatever reason meant giving up your humanity. She firmly believed that. And Cassandra Cain wished for it every day, that confirmation that she was  _human_. 

Her thoughts paused as she regarded the surrounding encampment. There was a landing strip in the distance where JLA emergency evacuation airlifts were picking up civilians and Cass could make out the outline of the Batwing, colorful string-like streamers stuck to the wings and fluttering in the cold wind. In the vehicle's shadow, Red Robin, Batgirl, and Robin were arguing animatedly amongst themselves while Nightwing wisely broke off conversation with a JLA meta-human physician to make his way towards his siblings before any gloves were thrown down (and at each other), both metaphorical and physical. 

Cassandra looked out in the other direction, into the surrounding wilderness veiled by the blizzard beyond the city limits, the storm in which Ra's al Ghul's ship had disappeared, then let her thoughts turn inward. Over time, Cass had learned to forgive herself the parts of her life she had no control over, but never the people responsible for the monster she almost became—that still existed, lurking somewhere inside, whispering temptations of _kill them, they deserve it_ , or _it's for the best—_ and wondered if Jason forgave neither (them or _himself_ ). She wondered, despite the trauma he suffered from, despite how justified his anger is at the unfairness in the world (like how she felt sometimes, like her brothers, like Stephanie and Barbara, and _Bruce_ ), if Jason was still able to forgive and be alive again.

If Jason still wanted to be human too. 

 

 

* * *

 

  

Tamaraneans cannot physically see humans; they can only identify them by sensory experiences. 

Koriand'r wasn't lying when she met Jason on that deserted island she called home at the time, no doubt in her mind that she was telling the truth, even when Roy joined them afterwards to question whether he was just a chatty blob of red play-dough in her eyes (which he wasn't, but it was such an endearing thought that she pinned the idea in her imaginary album of Roy's best moments). She admitted the fact of her impaired perceptions long before she had met either outcasted humans; a mantra she let linger since her last encounter with a human being.

But, she digressed. Everything before Jason and Roy—she never saw the need to bother with those memories. As long as all the truths she'd built around her heart, all the feelings she'd stuffed haphazardly away in some forgotten crevice of her being, were all exactly where she had left them, she could keep lying to herself. Keep the illusion of a happy, loving family with the men she had come to bond with, without letting the leash of her past drag her down into an emotional trap. Kori was free, her beloved friends were free, and X'hal knows she would doing anything to keep this equilibrium the way it was. 

Don't let your past define who you are. 

Fight for what _you_ believe in, not what _they_ say is right. 

You have as many flaws as the regrets you have left to grieve over. 

Let your actions prove your worth. 

_Live your own life._

She had told Jason as much when he confided in her all of his demons, long nights and blinding sunrises exposing him raw on that beach at the edge of the ocean. And yet, for all her advocacy for freedom, she couldn't help but feel conflicted in her whispered assurances and steadfast beliefs. The voice whispering in her ear might call her a _hypocrite_ , as humans would say. 

Because even now, Kori willingly repressed those repulsive parts of her psyche, hoping they would all snuff out of existence if she could allow herself to forget completely—the past, the memories, her emotions. Because she had denied Jason whatever secret was behind her own peaceful, blank slate and he had silently accepted it, smiled softly at her, never pointed an affronted finger at her in wounded abandonment. Because Jason was a survivor, a sympathetic, a loose cannon that had been rolling through trenches, fighting someone else's war, fighting for freedom before he even knew what a weapon was. He was all of those things to a fault and she would never wish the same oblivious fate on her dear friend because of it. He deserved better than to lose a single one of those admirable parts of him that she loved so much.

So, no matter how many times Jason was tossed into the mud by the treacherous life he stubbornly continued to march along, Kori swore to be there to lift him up, wash the blood and grime from his skin and gently kiss his bruises away. And perhaps incinerate the fools who dared to lay a finger on her precious friend and one-time-lover.

(Like how she had done so for another daring young human, so fragile and flightless, and valiantly strong in a way she could only ever hope to be).

Kori sat on an outcropping along the frozen marshlands at the edge of Yakutsk, watching the dark blizzard on the horizon, around her, the fractured ice floats on the Lena River where she'd sent the scrapped android sinking to its death, and wondered where her brave soldier could be in that moment. If he was safe, if he was fighting off assailants in enemy territory, if he had gotten his body back; if he was drowning, cold and bleeding, in a snow drift somewhere and if she made the right choice in staying behind to help rescue civilians, to fix the city she'd unwillfully almost leveled to the ground, _stay with Roy_ , instead of immediately chasing after him—

"You still here, Starshine?"

The Tamaranean princess shifted her green eyes to the side and took in the red-clad form of her current lover and boyfriend, Roy Harper.

"I thought you'd be halfway to the Pacific by now," he said, sidled up to her on her frozen perch and tenderly drew aside her glowing fringe to tuck it behind her ear. "That was the direction the airship was headed, after all."

Kori cupped Roy's hand to her cheek and replied, "You were upset about something. I could not leave you alone."

Roy felt his chest tighten imperceptibly at her honesty with a jolt of both guilt and endearment. He swallowed hard, put on his best smile. "You know me, Kitten. I'm a big boy. I can tie my own bow string, lace up my boots, and sharpen my arrows all by myself. Now, _Jason_ on the other hand—"

"—Needs our help. I know," Kori finished and lifted off his cap to press her lips to his forehead. "But as much as I wish to fly off at this moment to find him... You need me too. Whenever you are ready, we will go together."

Roy could feel it, the bubble of warmth from Kori's overwhelming, unconditional affection and faith in him. For the billionth time since he'd started this relationship with her, he wondered how lucky he was to have this. _This_. With Koriand'r, the alien warrior princess; former member of the Titans like himself, but had always been out of reach in the arms of their former-uncontested leader, Nightwing. Not like she remembered any of that—but the shear impossibility of what they have now compared to his chances back in the old days? It was the most ridiculous miracle Roy had never expected to need in his life. 

And he knew exactly who to thank for it— the just-as-unexpected best friend, who also happened to be the one who busted him out of prison in the Middle East, who also yanked him roughly back on his feet and taught him how to buck up and face his problems, and why the fuck did Roy ever think that Jason neither _wanted_ or _needed_ their help in return, as much as he _deserved_ it after everything they'd been through together? Even before the mini-Jay had run off to infiltrate the enemy base, it was so obvious, so _Jason_ , to try and deal with his problems on his own. Roy mentally kicked himself for hesitating back at the laboratory, letting the doubt in himself, the doubt in his capability to help solve a problem he knew next to nothing about, cloud his judgment. Because if nothing else, when he charged neck deep into trouble, Jason deserved an ally. The kind that treated you as an equal, not an expendable soldier. Saving the day first and figuring shit out later was the usual routine for them anyways.

"Roy. Someone is calling us," Kori nudged him and he followed her line of sight to the icy roadside a ways off from where he and Starfire had wandered where a green-garbed man stood, passively watching them from the shadow of his hood. The sight of him was so sudden, Roy practically jumped from his seat and nearly tripped over his own quiver lying in the snow. _That guy. That fucking— Are you kidding me?_ _I can't—I am_ not _doing this right now—_

In the distance, the two companions watched Green Arrow raise his hands to his mouth and shout something incoherent that was immediately sucked away from Roy's ears by the thundering wind (he wasn't really trying hard to catch it anyways). Kori, however, nodded her head in understanding. 

"He says that the Red Robin and the Nightwing have arrived with the Doctor Parsman. Shall we join them?"

Roy scowled at the figure in the distance and sighed. "If you're okay with it, Star," Roy groaned, trying not to imagine Nightwing and an amnesiac Koriand'r having to meet each other under the circumstances. Despite his efforts, there was just no chance of avoiding the eventual collision with their respective pasts. He had to keep reminding himself, _only for Jason._

Kori tilted her head curiously and replied, "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" She floated gracefully to her feet and took his hand. "Everything will be all right, Roy. I will take care of them if they are bothering you. Then, we will go find Jason, together."

Roy squeezed the warm hand in his, assured himself that his loving, beautiful girlfriend was right and he was ready for whatever barefaced truth the big-shot doctor had to say. He swore, if he didn't like what he was going to hear, then someone was getting an arrow promptly shoved up their a-hole. Most likely the stupid-looking, green archer with the two-toed sloth hanging from his face that he called a goatee. Which was offensive to sloths, but Roy meant no harm by it. Jason would agree with him anyways, would probably slap him on the back with an obnoxiously loud, " _Ha!_ " before wiping the non-existent tears from his eyes and adding:

_Fuck, Roy! Have you even seen a two-toed sloth before? Those things are fucking adorable._

Roy covered up his accidental snort with a horribly fake cough as the they made their way back to the road. Kori smiled deviously at him as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. Being the charmingly sly vixen that she was, she probably did. And just like that, things were as close to normal again, as much as it could be, and Roy could lie to himself that Jason hadn't even left in the first place. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nearly two hundred miles East of Yakutsk, the snow storm that swept through the Siberian wilderness of the Sakha Republic tumbled over the landscape in thick, swirling clouds. The snow fell so heavily that shadows darkened the plains, the dips and valleys scattered about the region, turning the horizon into a perpetual gray dusk. The Verkhoyansk Mountain Range swerved eastward in the gloom, wisps of ice squalling off their rigid cliffs and desolate hills, shifting fluid like sand until all signs of life were buried under the layers upon layers of frost. Somewhere in a copse between two peaks, a deep furrow trailed through the snow, drawing a jagged line through the untouched terrain. Already, the endless deluge of snow was hastily covering up the scar on the earth's surface, as well as the two figures splayed out in a small crater, created on impact when the snowdrift cushioned their fall. 

The smaller of the two was the first to stir, a blanket of white crumbling away as he fumbled, tried to reorient himself. He stood up, barely a head over the lip of the dug-out he found himself lying in, and watched the wind howl across the frozen wasteland of his surroundings through a fisheye lens. As the feeble light of day began to fade into nightfall, the boy shuffled towards the other figure, paused to settle whatever inner conflict he had left to fight against, then hefted the massive arm of his companion over his bony shoulders and started the long trek off into the tundra.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Pheweeee_. This one was a doozy to hash out for sure, if only because I literally had nothing planned for chapter to begin with going into the New Year =(
> 
> As always, let me know what you guys think! Critiques are certainly welcome (especially since I've been working on my writing style lately, after reading through one of those non-fiction writing style novels). Chapter title was taken from another famous work - let's make this interesting and say, a secret handshake to anyone who can tell me what "The Star" is referring to =P
> 
> In other news, next chapter is already in the works (huzzah D:)
> 
> Cheers


	15. How Did It Get So Late So Soon?

 

 

 

There was an old saying that had taken up residence in his thoughts at some point in his childhood. Whenever he asked, his mother would tell him— _there were good days, there were bad days._

On the good days he would wake up early, regardless of the daily forecast. Restlessness would kick him out of his cot, drive him into burning the edge off with push-ups, muscle-ups, hanging leg raises, anything harsh enough to burn him out fast and hard within the limited boundaries of his cell. He learned early on that he was prone to uninhibited violence if he left his cell with excess energy on a good day. 

Those days entitled him to refuse his medication too. The drugs were a cocktail of antipsychotics and antidepressants that didn't do shit for him anyways  _because he was none of those labels they diagnosed him as_. But the nurses respected that he was on a good day, so Jason was allowed his choices, whether it was spending the day out in a corner of the yard reading a book, or splitting his knuckles on the duck-taped sandbag in the gym. Maybe even something productive, like helping the carpenters fix the bench in the dining hall or mopping up the Rec Room for the custodians. Experience had taught both the staff and inmates to appeal to his moods on the good days since they seemed to happen more often as a consequence. Everyone dreaded the days when The Red Hood was clear-headed _and_  thoroughly pissed. 

Bad days started with sleepless nights, paralyzed by the anxiety, the shame, the guilt, the blind anger with delusional focus. Jason was notably quiet those days when the wardens hustled them out of their cells in the morning and by then, everyone would recognize what type of day it was. They had learned their lesson the first time when a group of gangbangers tried to stage a breakout and the entire criminal population at Blackgate mysteriously ended up poisoned, gutted, _dead_ in the aftermath. So from then on, they deemed to give him a ten-foot radius since no one really knew what The Red Hood's triggers actually were. Sometimes he would steal a kitchen knife and shank some particularly nasty convicts, or he might start a prison fight for the excuse of breaking spines. Afterwards, Jason would let the guards restrain him, took whatever drugs they forced on him without a fuss and let himself be locked in isolation for a solid forty-eight hours. There, he was free to scream, thrash, throw himself at the mental and physical walls around him that murmured lisps of disappointment, gouge at his Lazarus-tainted skin and bled (because the criminals who deserved to bleed were safely locked _outside_ of his cell), vomit until the tranquilizer in his meds kicked in and left his mind blissfully _blank_. 

And then the days would start anew. He would wake up from his fugue to read another chapter and help clean up his mess—the broken tables, the puddles of dried blood—from the day prior. It was a stagnant cycle. 

But every time, without fail, Jason would end up sprawled out on the floor in a drugged stupor, the ghost of a familiar cackle rippling along the walls of solitary confinement, and he would be sorely reminded of his mother. Before, when his mom was feeling down, she would cry in bed and forget that they hadn't eaten the day before, or that her three-year-old son was sick and needed to be cared for. Jason would lie on the mattress and squeeze her hand through the pain, but eventually, the relapse would pass; Jason would sweat out his fever in the night and his mom would laugh the ordeal off as proof that she was alive, at least, for one more day. As she said, there were good days, there were bad days. 

Yet, every day since then, Jason wondered what the fucking difference was. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

With a full-bodied jerk, Jason gasped into wakefulness. 

He took a moment to pull himself back to the present, the wind breathing heavily in his ear, whistling just past the crevice in which he and his unconscious companion were currently holed up in. Their shelter was bare, a shallow crack in the rocky outcrop covered in frozen slabs of mud, crusted along the edges of the fissure which came to a taper overhead. Tree roots pushed through from the cracks, taking up what little space there was to squeeze into, but it had been enough to stand three shoulder-widths apart and at the very least, the snow thankfully wasn't sweeping directly into the rock wall itself.

Out in the blizzard, progress had been slow-going and disorienting as Jason had struggled to keep his legs above the piling snow and continue to push forward against the blinding gale of ice. After dragging himself and The Batman's unconscious body for what felt like miles of barren white wilderness, lungs burning from the chilled air, by stroke of luck, Jason had reached a treeline where the jagged form of a rocky cliff promised at least some cover from the freezing wind. 

So here they were, a dying man with a bullet between his ribs and a dying boy suffering from blood loss and hypothermia. He needed to make a fire. 

Sluggishly, Jason managed to drag himself over to the dark form of Batmam he'd left lying against the rock, wrapped in the cocoon of his cape. He pushed his numb fingers through the folds of Kevlar (resisting the luring warmth that seeped out of the insulated cape) to reach the bulky utility belt around the other's waist and rummaged through the pockets until he found what he was looking for. Before Jason turned away with the emergency fire starter and a batarang in hand, he caught the faintest wisp of condensed air hovering about the man's mouth. 

Jason frowned. "Y-ou c-can... quit th' act. If y'ur... not d-dead yet, y'shoul-make... y-ourself useful..." he slurred as he dragged himself over to a mess of dried roots and twigs littering the back corner and clinging to the walls of their narrow shelter.

Bruce didn't move. Maybe it was just the wind playing tricks on him. Maybe he was finally losing his mind to the frost-bitten cold. Either way, they were going to die out here in the middle of nowhere if he couldn't keep focused on the task at hand. Jason used the sharp edge of the batarang to hack through the tangle of branches and stacked the wood over a pile of pine needles for tinder. Then he had to pause his lethargic motions to laugh silently at the ridiculousness of his situation. Being the city kid that he was, the last time Jason had had to start a fire with nothing but sticks and twigs, he had told Bruce, _can't I just use my lighter?_

Jason watched with half-lidded eyes as the sparks lit up the dark with every strike of his hand.  

_Snap... snap... snap..._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Store brand chocolate pudding. Fried chicken. An old CRT television set. A sagging, olefin couch. Threadbare polyester carpet. A queen-sized mattress.

His earliest memories told him he had shared that mattress with his mom and never questioned why. If Jason had grown up in a normal family, parents with nine-to-five jobs and a house in the suburbs, he probably would have wondered why he didn't have his own room, his own bed. But every night, his mom would pick him up off the couch where they'd been watching movies on channel three, eating their dinner of fried chicken with chocolate pudding for desert balanced on plastic stools on the carpet in the middle of the room. And she would cradle him, thinking he was asleep, fold him gently onto his side of the mattress before planting a kiss on his forehead and shuffling away as quietly as possible to do whatever adults did in the late hours after their children were safely tucked away. And for the first seven years of his life, that was normal.

He remembered shopping with his mom at the dollar store, sitting in the bottom of the shopping cart, or on his dad's shoulders (only once, before the only reason his dad would ever touch him again was to _smack, bruise, break_ , or _choke_ his son as if he could squeeze into submission every wrong made against him in his life). He remembered eating his lunch of saltine crackers and peanut butter while the other kids traded their sushi and three-layered sandwiches for fancy cupcakes and cookies. He would eat his crackers and convince himself they tasted like the steak dinners he saw on TV, on billboards, on elegant restaurant tables as he looked through the windows.

Needless to say, dropping out of school was an easy bridge to burn. The system no longer cared enough to track his family or threaten to separate them and put him foster care. He was finally free to look after his mom and forget about the other kids with their stupid fancy lunches that would cost his mom a week's worth of groceries. 

Back then, Jason felt like he was the only sensible kid around anyways. 

But, by the time Jason was old enough to see the difference, feel the shame and disappointment at how _abnormal_  his life actually was compared to the kids at school, his mom was gone—body taken by some distant relatives so she could be buried and forgotten. And Jason was left behind. After the doctors told him the news, he took off the moment they left him unsupervised. He walked back to their dingy apartment, took all their savings hidden in the mattress, packed the leftover peanut butter and pudding, his one extra sweater ( _his father's_ )—and locked the door on his way out. 

Jason walked and walked, ripped soles of his sneakers slapping the sidewalk to the beat of nighttime traffic. He crossed an intersection amidst a crowd of late-shift workers, partygoers, and downtown rabble, and took the usual right turn down a quiet street towards the diner at end of the block. He tossed the peanut butter and chocolate pudding in the dumpster out back. Inside, the plump waitress with thick eyeliner greeted him kindly, as always, and gave him their favorite corner, his and his mom's.

That night, he ordered as much fried chicken as he could afford and never touched it again in the years that followed. From then on, Jason taught himself an entirely different kind of love—

Chili dogs and Neapolitan ice cream. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

He blinked and tried to focus. "I'm Jason."

The statement echoed once, _I'm Jason_ , scoffing off the walls like an insult. 

"Don' care... -f you don' believe-at," he concluded and dropped the issue. 

The small fire flickered weakly between them in the small space, casting gruesome shadows on the jagged stone behind them. Jason had propped himself on the wall opposite of Batman in the enclosed space, huddled in his large, leather jacket and boots nicking the edge of the fire wood. His shivering was starting to calm down, but Jason couldn't tell if the signs meant his condition was improving or getting worse. Taking off his jacket and boots seemed like a good idea, though. 

He posed the idea to his companion. No response, but that was expected. He tried a different topic.

"... r-ruin'd part of-y-ur c-cape..." he mumbled for no reason accept to acknowledge the rip along the edge of Batman's cape where Jason had sliced a strip to wrap around the older man's chest. The entry wound had lodged under Bruce's left clavicle, missing his heart by a wide margin, but his lung most probably had been punctured. "S-sorry-y," he finished lamely, and not really caring much at this point anyways.

Jason licked his cracked lips and started again. "Y'know... Never th-thought I'd ss-say..." he paused to try and think. The switch on his mouth seemed to be frozen in the " _On_ " position, so he let it continue as it pleased. "Ne'er thought... I'd-mis—miss... bein' a kid-ag'n..."

He grimaced as he realized he had to force his ribs to expand at the end of his breath if he wanted to keep talking. There was a deep-seated throb like a vice around his chest, but he kept going because this was _important_. "S-m'times I w-onder... 'f I can-n ever-r... go back'n... fix wha-went wrong..."

Because that was the big question that everyone wondered, wasn't it? What the fuck was wrong with Jason Todd? Why did a kid who used to be Robin, a role model and a savior, turn into such a despicable human being? A deranged killer? Why did Bruce, or any one of his brood, even _care?_

"I ask-d... m'self 'f it was b-fore... or-after-r... 'r _now_..."

He trailed off again to look up and check if Bruce was still listening. The horned figure hadn't moved an inch.

"But I... I a'ways... end— nd up-p back... where-I... sst-tarted. 'Cause I don' even-n... know wher-things w-went... _wrong_... in th' firs' place."

He gulped and gripped his knees, grounding him where he sat. He said his next words even slower, carefully enunciating so that every syllable carried clearly in his ears.

"I... never... want-ed to... to _disappoint_ you."

Bruce lay there quietly, Jason closed his eyes, and the dying fire sputtered weakly against the draft.

_Snap... snap... snap..._

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You're letting your emotions interfere with your judgment."

Bruce. 

"Well, just because you think this is necessary for _justice_ , doesn't mean it's the best for everyone. She chose not to run the paternity test. She chose not to testify."

Dick.

The hard creases in Bruce's jaw seemed to dig deeper into his face, if that was even possible. "I _explained_ it to you already. The victim is still in denial," he rasped with barely a shift in his teeth. "She's in post-traumatic stress and not in a right state of mind to make a sound decision—"

"How can you _say that?"_ Dick threw back at the older man, eyes furrowed in bewilderment. "This is _her_ body, _her_ child, you're talking about. I can't believe you—"

"Then you think it's fine to let that man walk free? Let him attack another innocent woman who won't be so lucky as _she_ was to _survive_ and finally have the evidence to put him away," Bruce stated, not a question. 

" _I didn't say that!_ I _said_  that we'll have to find another way, Bruce, without having to force anyone to do what they're not—"

_"You think it's fine_ that her decision to not take responsibility takes precedence over all the victims who suffered and _died_  before her— _Elizabeth Brooks, Tara van As, Grace Ni, Katie Carron—"_

"Lay off, Bruce. You know that's not what I—"

"—Then what are you trying to say, Dick? I've been listening, I tried, and still you  _insist_ I should be satisfied with your slipshod excuses. I taught you better than this."

"You know what? You think you can handle this case better than me? _Fine_. _I'm done._ Don't bother setting a place for me at the dinner table."

Jason, still fully dressed in his Robin uniform, quickly left the change room to block Dick's exit, which would have begged the question of what the young preteen had been doing for the past half hour— _eavesdropping_ — but neither men in the room could have cared less at the moment. "Hey man," Jason started, waving his hands up by his head, palms forward to prove his non-threatening status. "Don't just walk away like that. You're making it look like you don't care at all."

Dick rounded on Jason, his shoulders rolling up, looming like a tidal wave before the crash. For a split second, Jason felt the long-forgotten urge to close his arms, protect his face, his neck, curl up, _anything_  to ward off the anticipated beating; he held back (because he should have broken the annoying habit by now _—_ his father was long gone, long _dead,_ and _good riddance_ ) except for a violent twitch of his hand. 

"Oh no, you don't get to lecture me on caring about this job," Dick bristled, neck redder than a glowing 'exit' sign. "I care more about what I do for  _these people_  than you ever did, while _you_  were still busy stealing hub caps and pocket money on the streets."

Now _that_  was unnecessary. Everything Jason had ever done, he did it for survival. And whatever he'd stolen, he had never hurt an innocent person in his life besides the bullies and the perverts who deserved to have their bones snapped, broken beyond saving. He never asked to be born and raised in Crime Alley; he never asked to drop out of school because his family couldn't afford the expenses. He never asked to be _Robin_. But standing there, staring Dick in the eye as he insulted, debased the choices he'd made, but never wanted? _What a fucking hypocrite._ Jason felt as if he'd been slapped, broken from the spell of his irrational fear (because this was the original, the Golden Boy, the _best_ , who was currently taking out his irrational anger on him).

He found his voice and snapped back, "I'm on your side, _you fucking jackass_. And I was about to stand up for you too if you weren't being such a _jerk_ about it. I have my own morals—"

"Go back upstairs, Jason," Bruce growled. An order, no room for arguments. But, Jason wasn't there to argue.

Jason stabbed an accusing finger at him. "No. I'm gonna talk and you guys are gonna listen because I've had enough of this shit. And when I say _you_ , I mean you, _Bruce_ , not Batman. You're one of the smartest guys I've ever met and yet you've got this hard-ass idea in your head that everything you do is the best possible way to get things done. Wake-up call— _it's not."_

Bruce was quick to reply, "This isn't about _me_ , Jason. If Dick had let me explain the evidence—"

Dick snorted. "Oh, now you want to share? Go ahead, Bruce, I'm all ears."

At this point, Jason couldn't recognize Bruce beneath the darkened ridges that marred his face. The man stiffly replied, "You seemed perfectly fine with handling the case without my help in the first place."

" _Exactly_. Meaning that your excessively _pointless details_ are _not_ gonna change the fact that this girl is a _human being_ who has the _right. To make. **A choice!"**_

" _Jesus_ , Bruce. This is your chance to convince him, and that's all you've gotta say? And fuck, Big 'Wing, just give him a chance t—"

"You don't know anything, kid, so _shut your mouth_. And don't call me, _Big 'Wing_."

"Well, fuck y—"

"Finish that sentence, young man, and you're grounded from patrol for the next two weeks."

Jason spun around in disbelief and balked at Bruce. "Oh, _now_ you want to bring that up? Come on, Bruce, I was trying to _help_ you—

"Three weeks."

"Oh, _come on!"_

" _That's a month, Jason, now be quiet and go take off that **damn suit!"**_

Silence. Jason's next words had barely slipped past his teeth before they fell from his lips to the floor, lost under the landslide of Bruce's anger. He didn't move. Dick was already marching purposefully up the stairs, met by a weary Alfred at the top who looked several decades older than his youthful sixty-seven. Slowly, Bruce sat back in his seat at the computer to finish up whatever notes he had left open on the screen in the sudden stillness of the cave. When finished, he set the desktop to idle then trudged back upstairs without a word. Jason still hadn't moved.

Alone with the bats, Jason stood there in the middle of the cave for what seemed like a lost amount of time, but must have been well before dinner since no one came to fetch him (unless Alfred was delaying). He could hear his breath rattling in his chest, refusing to let go of the burning sensation of bitterness and disappointment pushing up at the top of his lungs, refusing to let himself vomit everything on the cave floor, on Bruce's trophies, Dick's Robin case, like shattered glass from his mouth. Instead, Jason walked to the computer, woke it up, and opened a video playback of  _Robin_. Training sessions, street cameras, security footage, whatever he could find as he often did when alone in the cave. It was the only way for him to see the  _real_ Robin, the one that Bruce missed so much, the one he needed to be if this gig was ever going to work out for him. 

Cheerful, charming, smart. Not arrogant, bratty, sarcastic. Openly honest, confident, and compassionate. Never insecure, or over-eager, or awkward with his words. The Robin that could speak on equal terms with the Batman. Jason let the videos loop on the screen as he wandered onto the mats to practice the quadruple somersault and pummel the sandbag until his knuckles started to blister, until Alfred finally returned to call him up for dinner. 

And if he lied while they sat in the dining room later, when Bruce asked if something was wrong (as if he'd already wiped all evidence of the utter disaster that was two hours earlier from his brain's archive), Jason could deal with it. Because he obviously understood the difference between the starved, pointless life he had been living before and the plush, sterile comfort he had been living in for two whole years now, so there should be absolutely _nothing_ for him to complain about.

Nothing at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They were reindeer herders from a camp near Oymyakon, a hundred miles out from Yakutsk.

Some of the young calves had been frightened by the sudden appearance of the snow storm and broken away from the main herd, forcing the three herders to venture out into the wilderness, armed with their shotguns and hoping the calves hadn't been eaten by the wolves yet. As they came up to the cliffs along the edge of the valley where their encampment stood, they found strange formations that the snow had piled atop of— 

What was once a deep furrow crossed the barren landscape in the distance towards them, as if something had been dragged through. Too small for a bear, and too big for a lone wolf. The herders followed the trail up to the cliff face. There, inside a crevice in the cliff, they were shocked to find what they first believed was a _demon_ — swathed in black, sharpened horns, pupil-less eyes— they panicked, and would have shot the thing if they hadn't notice the face of a boy, shielded from the cold and bundled within the cloak as well. And they realized that the pair were _human_.

One herder was sent back to retrieve a sled while the two left behind settled in to start a proper fire, hoping to save the strangers they'd found stranded in the blizzard.

Neither dared to move and separate the two, with the man's arms wrapped so tightly around the boy, as if he'd lose a piece of himself if he ever let go.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shoves on the football helmet and body armor* ... I have a valid excuse for being late on this chapter, so let's talk about this like civilized people. Ok? Cool.
> 
> I actually started writing _4_ chapters ahead of chapter 14 and was stuck on which one I should finish and post first since they were all going to happen eventually anyways. Then, being the procrastinator that I am, I actually did my schoolwork and _studied._
> 
>  _*collective gasp*_
> 
> I know, I know, it was pretty shocking for me too. On that note, I do have several papers due in the coming weeks, as well as exams coming up in April, thus I have unfortunately made a vow to hold back on the writing until everything has settled down.
> 
>  
> 
> _*dramatic gasp*_
> 
>  
> 
> There, there, I know, I'm disappointed in myself too =( But, on a positive note, I will still try to reply if you guys leave any messages for me.
> 
> Notes on Chapter 15: The last dream that Jason has was a practice for me in writing a real argument that could happen between family members, and an exploration in how anger clouds judgement, where each person ends up saying the nastiest things, plainly meant to hurt each other (so go easy on Bruce and Dick, people). The title is taken from a poem by the infamous Dr. Seuss. For those of you who like detail, there are a few recurring themes throughout this chapter that may, or may not be so obvious. If you can name one or a few or all, I will personally give you **one** giant internet cookie. That's right, only _one_.
> 
> Cheers


	16. Who You Admire Most

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And here I present the chapter-that-nobody-asked-for-and-really-doesn't-mean-much-but-made-a-nice-excuse-for-me-to-procrastinate. 
> 
> Um... happy belated-April Fool's Day?

  

 

 

_You're letting your emotions interfere with your judgement._

Dick shook his head, raking his fingers across his scalp in surprise. What was— where had  _that_  memory come from? At a time like this? Maybe he was more exhausted than he thought. But, even if they were running on nothing but energy bars and pure willpower for the last three days straight, he couldn't afford to let intrusive thoughts derail him, make him lose his focus. Not when the truth was literally standing right in front of them— Dr. Parsman. 

The professor was currently speaking in hushed tones with Red Robin, Ubu looming over the older gentleman's shoulder like a silent threat. Not far away, The Black Bat and Batgirl were successfully coaxing a disgruntled Robin into taking a seat at the other side of the room with his broken ankle propped up for comfort.

They were currently holed up in a steel portable building that the locals in this frozen region of the world used as an all-purpose conference room. Dick wasn't sure what to expect when the mayor of Yakutsk offered to accommodate them with the city's best diplomatic space— sparse, metal-ribbed walls, bulky overhead lights, an aluminum dais surrounded by upholstered folding chairs and a pin-up national flag— but the spartan set up was certainly a humbling sight. Admirable in a way that plainly said, _We don't give a damn about gaudy politics or superhero drama. Just pull your shit together already and do your fucking job_ _._ The decor made its statement clear and Dick didn't need a verbal reprimand to feel thoroughly put in his place.

And at this point, Dick was utterly fed up with tip-toeing around the obvious mess that his life had become. He needed to be frank with himself—he needed to admit that, of all the roles he had adopted and passed on over the years, the ones that mattered most to him weren't the ones that came with the masks, or the symbol of a bird, or a _bat_. Take away the icon and all that was left were the titles: _friend, brother, son_. They had always been the important ones, even when there was nothing impressive about being a friend, a brother, or a son. Which might explain why the codenames always felt empowering to him, gave him an identity to help carry the heavy weight of his conscience and the blind faith that people showered him with; they made him feel bolder, braver, strong enough to make a difference, to save innocent lives—but maybe that was where he'd messed up along the way.

Now, more than ever, Dick felt the weight of those numbers. They had rescued over a thousand people today from Dr. Ivo's abandoned underground lab, a good portion of the civilians Ra's had taken captive for whatever sick cloning experiments he had been conducting, yet there were still more to be rescued. There was no question that Dick felt responsible for those people, for the families still hoping for their friends and loved ones to return to them alive and well. For years he had built himself on this ideal, and for years he did his best to live up to it, but as time passed he began to realize— the more people he obligated himself to, the more responsibilities he took on, the easier it was to lose sight of the silent promise he had made to himself when Robin flew for the first time. Besides his promise to fight for justice, Dick Grayson had promised to be someone his parents would be proud of— someone who protected the ones most important to him.

And maybe he would have thought about it eventually, but not counting twelve-year-old Jason as _someone important to him_ , not offering him a chance before the kid was gone and _never coming back_ , was something Dick would always regret. That failure hung around his neck more heavily than ever, especially with the possibility that the little clone could be the real Jason who had been missing for the past six months. Even now, Dick was still wrapping his head around that bombshell of information from Ubu, that Ra's had _stolen_ Jason's body, leaving the original's consciousness to be downloaded into a mindless clone by freak accident.

Dick was still deep in thought, still brooding over the endless questions and regrets he had, when a presence approached from behind him. A slim hand smoothly slid over his shoulder, drawing his attention. 

"Nightwing, it's good to see you," Zatana quirked a smile up at him as Dick spun around. She tipped her top hat at him and he managed to return the greeting to his old friend with a smile. Behind her, several more heroes who had responded to the Black Bat's distress signal filed into the room: The Flash, Black Canary, and Green Arrow. Roy and Kori followed close behind (and Dick felt another pang in his chest, wanted so badly to talk to his old friends, to make things right with them too. But he held back the urge, because they were Jason's friends now, and his own problems would have to wait for another day), and lastly—

"— _Superman?_ " Dick's eyes widened in surprise. He would have quickly moved to the other man's side and offer a shoulder to lean on if the man hadn't already been leaning on Superboy. The two walked into the room with Supergirl trailing behind them. 

"You didn't need to get up for this. They only just finished dialyzing the kryptonite out of your blood," Dick said, even as he quickly pushed aside a few chairs so the man and his family had an unobstructed path to the front row. Clark thanked him and took a seat as the two younger Supers said their greetings to Nightwing before they wandered off. Conner drifted over to Red Robin, still locked deep in conversation on a corner of the dais, and Kara approached Batgirl and Black Bat who were drawing pictures on the casted ankle of a now-gently-snoring Robin.

At Nightwing's disapproving stare, Clark sighed and waved off the other man's concerns with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'm all right. My body is already regenerating as we speak. Black Bat made a wise decision in taking that kryptonite needle with us." The treatment had been tortuously slow-going using the toxic needle for the procedure after Superman was carted off to the paramedics, but it was obvious that nothing else would have worked on such short notice without that customized needle to breach his otherwise-impenetrable skin. It was ironic to say the least, for the weapon that nearly killed him to be the instrument that saved his life in return. 

Superman and Nightwing watched as Kara took a shiny gold marker and with the mighty pen in hand, started adding her own decorations to the sleeping boy's cast that had become a personal drawing canvas for the three girls. Clark turned back to Dick.

"Enough about me. You should be resting up while you can, Dick. You're in no better shape yourself." Dick opened his mouth to protest when Clark quickly added on, "— At least, not _mentally_. Physically, you're fine. But, I hope you know you can talk to me if something is bothering you. Like always. Don't think you have to carry your burdens by yourself all the time, the same way Bruce does." Clark glanced over at Dr. Parsman with the colossal ninja over his shoulder, whom Conner was glaring back at with equal intensity from over Tim's head.

"It's about Jason, isn't it?" Clark surmised.

The split second of hesitation before Dick replied wasn't lost on Clark's ears. Dick shrugged indifferently. "Well, Jason is a part of the reason why we have a global crisis on our hands right now. Something happened between him and Ra's al Ghul and now The Demon is trying to eradicate world corruption with an apocalyptic takeover by clones. We can't exactly ignore that."

Clark raised an eyebrow at the bitter sarcasm in the younger man's voice. "You're deflecting, Dick. You're upset about something, but it has nothing to do with Ra's al Ghul, does it?"

"Of course it does. He's the one who—"

"It meant a lot to you, didn't it? To you and Bruce," Clark remarked, his voice softened in understanding. "It must have felt like Jason was giving you a second chance." 

Dick didn't try to deny Clark's insight, but his face froze at those words, projecting nothing and _everything_ at once. "... It doesn't matter anymore," he said stiffly. "It was obvious what he would do once he found out what was going on— once _we_ figured out the truth. We couldn't keep him locked up in Wayne manor forever." Dick took a seat next to Clark, somehow managing to hunch over his knees in the image of half intent, half reluctance. 

"He chose to be the man he is now. He's not a kid anymore."  _No matter how badly we want him to be_ , a voice in his head said a little more quietly to himself.

"You're right, he's not. But does that make him such a different person?" Clark countered. 

"I don't know, Clark," Dick wondered out loud in frustration, took a sharp breath and exhaled slowly as if bracing himself for a hit. "We've fought a lot since he came back. You had to be there to understand it; the horrible things he said, the hate in his words, the _rage_ , like a fever in his eyes. At first, all I could think was, ' _So this is who you really are, Jason—a goddamn murderer._ '

"But then I'd catch glimpses of something else when I least expected it; like how, if I tried to talk about him getting professional help, he was never exactly offended, but he would look me straight in the eye and _pity_ me as if _I_ was the crazy one; I caught him once, just standing there between a victim and an aggressor, letting the thug beat the shit out of him as if he was trying to prove something. Then he just _snapped—_ broke the guy's arms, kept pounding his unconscious body with his fists until I tried to stop him. He walked away as if nothing had happened."

Clark said nothing, only nodded his head a fraction to show that he was still listening. For a second, Dick wondered if he should end the conversation there, cut off that part of him that needed to read off the memorial inside him so badly, or just let the presumptuous words slip out like a mantra, unfiltered. He kept going. 

"The first time I met him, I knew this kid was different from Bruce and I. He'd never had a stable home or a stable family; he was angry, and for good reason. I knew— _I knew_ that he never had any reason in his life to  _not_ to be angry. Knowing that only makes me feel like it should have been easy, to just get over my ego and be the bigger man whenever Bruce and I started arguing. You know. Show him that life wasn't always about _conflict_ or overcoming your demons by _force_.

"I feel like such an idiot. I feel like things would have turned out so much better if I had just acknowledged it. At the time, neither of us were looking to fill the roles, but suddenly I was a brother and Bruce was a father. And I didn't realize that even if I was becoming someone else's son, it didn't mean I had to forget about my parents. I avoided it like a taboo, an unspoken rule we shouldn't cross into each other's lives, even when there were those rare moments when Bruce would actually show he cared more than he ever let on. Back then, I was just so angry at everything and we were so busy figuring out where we stood with each other, that I didn't stop to realize Jason was standing there between us. I hope it's not just my imagination, but I feel like more than either of us, _that_ Jason needed someone to acknowledge him. He needed a family."

Dick paused, took a moment to study the navy and pink speckled pattern of the carpet as if he could read his next lines in the thread-work. When he looked up again, Clark's enhanced vision saw past the barrier of the domino mask covering the sleepless bruises beneath the younger man's eyes, a clear blue, but dulled by his self-imposed burdens. They were red from fatigue, drier than the cold, parched air outside.

" _And I let that kid down,_ " Dick concluded, swallowed thickly at the rawness in his throat. He looked pointedly at his siblings scattered about the room. "I can't let them down. Never again." His jaw tightened imperceptibly and with that, he fell silent. 

Clark had considerately kept quiet throughout Dick's confession, but by the end of it, he had lost track of what he wanted to say. His lips were numb with every question, every offer of comfort and advice he wanted to convey. Instead, his intentions flashed undecidedly across his face as he watched Dick perch his elbows on his knees and lean his forehead on his clasped fingers with a heavy sigh, waiting for judgment. 

When was the last time he'd ever seen Dick in such a state? Clark remembered counseling his young friend in his teenage years, barely an adult, yet not quite the same exuberant boy he had been before—more world weary, figuring out where he fit into society on his own, having outgrown Bruce's protective shadow. Back then, he had understood why the younger man was so lost and preoccupied with his own problems. _This is what happens_ , he had imagined, _when you're young with ten years of a lonely childhood behind you, growing up with adults that could never compare to the love and affection of the family you lost._

Bruce knew that feeling well ( _he was the first_ ). Not to say that Bruce or Alfred, were apathetic, inadequate caretakers; or that Bruce was an entirely disastrous choice for a role model as his JLA colleagues all firmly believed (and perhaps had some feasible reasons to believe them), but when it came to his enigmatic friend, Clark had learned not to take those assumptions at face value. 

He had known for a long time— had seen the proof with his own eyes— about Bruce's stoic compassion, juxtaposed beneath the layers of ingenuity and brutal, uncontested authority that was the foundation of everything The Batman had built himself on. But it wasn't until later, as Bruce's family steadily grew in size, that Clark had come to realize just _how_ deep his friend's capacity for empathy was. 

Looking back, watching Bruce _trying his best_ with the children, the strangers he'd open up his own home to, trying to be a paternal figure and doubting, failing, but still _trying?_ It made him realize that the children who continued to stand by his side, just as Dick had— despite stumbling over their feelings, throwing fists at each other, clashing morals, and biting each other's heads off—they _reciprocated_ those feelings. They _all_ had tried for some semblance of happiness knowing the end result might never work out.

"—Jason didn't blame you," Clark blurted mid-thought, offered to Dick who swiveled his head up at the abrupt comment. For Clark, he felt the realization suddenly wash over him like yellow sunlight on his skin, bolstering his confidence in the memory. 

There was a time, years ago, when his parents used to invite Bruce, Alfred, and Dick (and Jason, when he came into the picture), over to the Kent homestead for Thanksgiving every season— invitations that often went rejected, but the one time they had surprisingly accepted was where Clark had met the boy whom too many had overlooked in his short lifetime and too few had ever acknowledged. 

To be honest, he was ashamed to have forgotten such a memory, had never thought it could have meant anything important in the scheme of things. He had been nothing more than an acquaintance, after all, and the boy seemed wary of anything close to friendship at the time, unlike Dick with his charming enthusiasm and easy friendliness. In a way, perhaps Dick had out-shined Jason Todd through everyone's eyes, a polarized lens that Jason was never able to shatter, as hard as he tried (or perhaps, wasn't given the chance to). Clark could have been so easily unawares like everyone else and never would have known better if Dick hadn't rejected the Kent's invitation that year. The boy suddenly had the chance to disclose a part of himself that he bottled up around his adopted family and Clark, being the outsider and too genuine to break a promise, had been the perfect outlet for him to speak his mind and not worry for the consequences.

But that boy was gone now (had no secrets left to keep), so Clark took a deep breath and recollected his words, what he had told Jason that Thanksgiving and what Jason had told him in return. The story took him less than five minutes, but time felt displaced in that moment as the metal folding chairs and the floorboards creaked, mingled with the murmurs of their friends and allies surrounding them in that portable building used for diplomacy on that side of the world. When he finished, Dick's mouth was pulling hard at the edges, biting back the emotion, surprise, or anguish, and maybe all three. But the shine in Dick's eyes proved that something had changed, slotted into place, like finding a stained photograph from your childhood after years lying forgotten and crumpled underneath the junk in your closet, and suddenly thinking, _you were my friend once, weren't you?_

Dick opened his mouth sever times, searching for the right words to say. But in the end, he simply smiled and said, _"Thanks, Clark."_

A cough interrupted any further discussion and drew everyone's attention to the platform.

"Sorry for the wait, everyone, we're ready for the debriefing. Doctor Parsman, if you would?" Red Robin turned to the balding professor, who tugged skittishly at his tweed winter coat and nudged the thick-lensed bifocals higher up the bridge of his flat nose as he stepped forward. 

"Of course. I'll get right to it then," the professor said.

And without further delay, the man dove into his story of his fated encounter with The Demon's Head.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Clark stepped out onto the back porch in the crisp, cold November evening, his first objective was to corral the cows back into the barn after spending the day grazing on a crop of summer annuals. Once they were settled in their stables, he would check the chicken feeders, the water troughs, lock up the barn for the night, and make one more stop before heading inside to savor his mother's wholesome turkey dinner. 

He found the kid outside the stable, legs dangling below him as his arms propped himself up on the single rail of the fence where the old draft horse, Daisy, could be usually found idling during the day. Now, the small field was empty, a thin layer of frost settled over the lumpy earth and sparkling in the late evening light. Clark watched as the boy leaned forward and spun on the rounded, wooden bar to come back to his original position. Then he slowly lifted his back, tilting his hips up, and up, until he was balancing in a handstand with his sneakers kicking together in the air. Clark was rather impressed when the boy dared to let go of one hand leaving him upside down on one shaky arm. Suddenly, his elbow collapsed with a surprised yelp and the boy keeled over in a frantic flail of limbs, only to drop harmlessly into Clark's arms in the split second it took for the man to appear by his side.

"Uh... Thanks," Jason mumbled without looking at him and stiffly pushed away, dropping to his feet. 

Having been an awkward, easily-embarrassed twelve-year-old once himself, Clark didn't comment on his mumbling. "You're welcome. That was quite impressive."

Jason huffed and wrinkled his nose as if he was just told a horribly bad joke. "Yeah, _right_. Dick was already doing _Geingers_ and _Reverse Hechts_ when he was just a brat I bet. I'm still struggling to fucking catch my _balance_."

Clark was a little affronted by the swearing, but he really knew nothing about gymnastics, or Jason for that matter, so a lecture was probably the last thing the kid needed right now. "Did Dick teach you those moves?" he asked instead.

The boy scoffed again. "Do pigs fly? Do cows live on the moon? _Can monkeys shoot out of my butt?_ " Jason asked sourly. 

Clark raised an eyebrow at him and Jason pulled back to lean against the fence post, chewed on his lip as he frowned right back at the older man. 

"Okay, you're right. That last one was unecessary."

Unfazed by the kid's boldness, Clark exclaimed, "Don't be too hard on him. Dick takes his responsibilities seriously, so seeing someone else taking over his role as Robin might be a little hard for him to accept, but he'll come around eventually. Him and Bruce are just going through a rough spot—"

"You don't need to convince me. _I get it,"_  Jason interrupted. "He obviously wouldn't be so popular if he was always such a grump. And I'd be pissed too if some disrespectful punk like me came along and kicked me out of the job."

There was an awkward pause while Jason dug his heel into the dirt, eyes fixed on a scuff mark on the rubber toe of his shoe. Clark shifted to lean against the fence next to him and looked up at the trail of stars starting to climb across the ceiling of sky overhead. Before the Kryptonian could say anything else, Jason surprisingly broke the silence first. 

"... I'm still getting used to all of this," he started and shoved his hands into his pockets to warm up his fingers. "One second I'm trying to jack some wheels off the Batmobile and next thing I know, I'm living the high life. It feels like a fucking fairytale. Sometimes a part of me feels like I don't deserve it and another part just wants to prove to everyone that I _do._  I'm a pretty fast learner so I  _know_ I can be a good partner, a good son, or a good brother if that's what they want. _I can be anything they need me to be_. Even if I haven't had much practice being any of those things."

Looking at Jason in that moment as he tried to convince Clark that he was _worth_ something, Clark felt a painful stutter in his chest. The boy's defensive walls seemed to be crumbling away and Clark suddenly caught a glimpse of the insecure, starved, lonely boy behind the biting sarcasm. Just a kid looking for acceptance in a world that had no place for him. Or at least, no place that he could see for himself. 

The familiarity of that thought had him swallowing down the flood of nostalgia. 

"You know... I may not look like it, but my life was pretty confusing too when I was your age." Jason tilted his head in his direction, showing that Clark had the boy's full attention. "All the kids at school thought I was weird; and it was tough growing up, learning to control my powers, trying to live up to the expectations that my father knew the world would have in store for me. It was frustrating, knowing that the man I had to become,  _needed_ to become, was such a flawless ideal. I had so many faults already— I knew nothing about the world outside the farm I grew up in, or the little town of Smallville. As a kid, I could never fathom the problems of the billions of people on Earth beyond the bullies at school, or the broken tractor my dad needed help fixing, or the stupid things I did to impress the other kids. There was that one time I took a dare from my classmates to make a crop circle on our neighbour's field and my ma made me apologize for it—"

That drew a small snort from his young companion, mumbling something about _aliens_ and _crop circles_. But he was still listening aptly, so Clark continued. 

"—Even after I grew up, I still made mistakes along the way. I was eager to not let my parents down, eager to prove to the people who suddenly looked up to me to solve their problems, that I could be the hero they needed—kind, just, fair, and above all, _powerful_ enough to save _everyone_."

Clark turned to look at Jason and found bright teal eyes staring intensely right back at him. 

"I eventually learned the hard way, that the bigger the promises you make to yourself and others, the bigger the consequences when you can't meet everyone's expectations. Too many times, I wished I could go back and fix my mistakes. But over time, I started to realize— as much as I wanted to be perfect, to use my powers for _good_ — Superman was just one man. In the end, the best that I could ever offer to the world, wasn't the flawless man in the cape. The person that mattered most was the man _beneath_ the cape— Clark Kent. I learned that being myself, doing the best that _I_ can do,  _believing_ in myself, is just as important as being acknowledged and accepted by the world, because you can never have one without the other."

A pause as Jason pondered Clark's words. He asked carefully, "What if being yourself... isn't good enough for them?"

_Smart kid_ , Clark thought sadly. Another part of him thought, _no kid should have to think about himself like this_. He questioned back, "Will you give up if it isn't? Or will it change how you feel about your new family?"

Clark watched as Jason's mouth stretched into a smirk. His immediate answer was, "Not a chance. I'm no quitter." Then he thought for a second and added, "And Dick will always be a _dick_ , Bruce will always have a scowl on his face, and Alfred will always be the best no matter what."

"Then there's your answer, kid," Clark chuckled and smiled back.

The two companions stood there a while longer, until the glowing disc of the moon replaced the sun's last rays of light. Clark told Jason stories about Dick's misadventures as Robin, his likes and dislikes, his quirks and pet peeves, little embarrassing moments that made Jason bend over and laugh his guts out. At some point, Martha Kent poked her head out the back door to call them back in for dinner. When she pointed out the grin still plastered to Jason's face as he walked in, cheeks pinched pink from the cold and exuberant laughter, his only smug comment was:

"If that's what going through  _puberty_ means, then I'm gonna make Dick look like a sweet-ass fruit pie."

Jason suffered through the bitter taste of soap in his mouth all throughout dinner as everyone laughed at his expense (even Bruce with his reserved smile), but Ma Kent probably forgave him since his slice of apple pie was larger than anyone else's that night.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, time to get back to panicking over papers and exams. Let me know what you guys think of Dick and Clark (I really wanted to move the plot along, but I still feel unsatisfied with their characters, which might be why I ended up giving them a whole chapter to themselves).
> 
> =(
> 
> *Scurries back into the dungeon of endless studying for the next month*


	17. A Vision of Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, since it's been a while, I figured a recap of where the story left off would be rather convenient:
> 
> _After encountering Ra's al Ghul in Dr. Ivo's secret laboratory in Yakutsk, Russia, and fighting off his reprogrammed Amazo androids, Jason and Bruce ended up stranded in the middle of the Siberian wilderness in the middle of a snowstorm, but were luckily rescued by some reindeer herders. Meanwhile, Nightwing and Red Robin arrived to a partially demolished Yakutsk, post-battle, with Professor Parsman and one of Ra's' assassins, Ubu, in tow. While the kidnapped people are being rescued from the lab, members of the JLA and the Bat family are now awaiting to learn of Doctor Parsman's involvement in Ra's al Ghul's plan for world domination._
> 
> ... yeah, sorry if that was kind of bland.
> 
> Warning: Scene of violence, but I tried to keep the gory details to a minimum. Also, some religious references mentioned in this chapter, but nothing in any way insulting or disrespectful, only tweaked the facts a little to suit the universe. I'm not religious myself, so any facts that are incorrect, please take them as fictional circumstances.

 

 

The moment Allen Parsman truly realized that he had made a horrible mistake was when the screaming started. The Demon's Head himself was strolling calmly by his side, completely nonplussed by the horrible sounds coming from the courtyard while Parsman did his best to keep his eyes forward and mask the hesitation in his steps. He didn't dare speak up on the matter. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Ra's al Ghul lifted a wrinkled hand off his cane and gestured at the masked commander lingering at his other shoulder, who quickly stepped forward with his head bowed in respect. 

"What is going on?" Ra's demanded. 

"Apologies, sir," the man said quickly, his voice muffled by the balaclava, but Parsman heard the tremor of fear regardless. "The compound went into lockdown just before your arrival. One of the new detainees turned out to be a hostile and suddenly started a riot. We're not sure how he infiltrated the premises."

Ra's sneered in distaste. "Then you should be sure to _correct_ your mistake, commander, before our departure. You would do well to remember that the only reason I fund your operations here in Bialya is for the freedom of our brothers and my faith in the cause."

A lie, Parsman acknowledged, even when he himself was almost deceived by the mask of empathy behind the innocent words and the brows pinched with concern. The only cause Ra's al Ghul could ever have faith in was global genicide, not some amateur extremists who used armed, innocent children as their shields on the battlefield. Several months in the company of the fraying, elderly immortal, surrounded by his vast empire of worldly knowledge, his carefully staged puppet organizations, and Parsman had come to a conclusion: the history that he sought, his life's work, his obsession with the origins of the _Lazarus Pits_ — all of it was never worth the risks. He had walked blindly into the claws of a monster and his work was a failure. A fantastical pipe dream; a venomous truth that rivaled the tragic fate of all those who selfishly pursued their holy grail. A _lie_. 

He never wished for his research to come to this. 

(Manipulated by a madman, not that there was anything left of this _"man's"_ soul that could still be considered  _human_ ).

As they continued on through the terrorist stronghold, the gunshots and shouting rippled louder and louder through the air. Soon, more guards were leaving their posts and a flock of haphazardly armed soldiers (some no taller than Parsman's elbow) rushed past them in a hurry. Ra's glanced up briefly from the screen of numbers he had been scrutinizing over and with a dismissive sigh, closed the tablet with a snap. 

"Ubu."

The hulking, enigmatic manservant materialized from behind a pillar. "Yes, Master," he bowed his head. 

Ra's nimbly unclipped and folded his cloak with a grace deceptive of his age. Passing his things to the aide, he ordered, "Fetch me my sword. I will punish these imbeciles myself."

Whatever punishment The Demon's Head had in mind, Parsman knew for certain that he didn't want to witness the end result. The choice, however, was out of his hands as the guards ushered their entourage forward and soon the old scholar was lurching back in dawning horror at the scene that greeted them outside. 

The fight was utter chaos, a massive riot of prisoners and guards ripping through each other like rabid animals all across the courtyard. Before them, the sea of gunfire and screaming ebbed in a disconcertingly violent battle of wills, but the efforts of the soldiers seemed to converge on a particular corner where the tides of bloodshed appeared to be most hectic. Mangled bodies littered the enclosed grounds and the distinct stench of iron permeated the subtropical, humid air.

_Dear God_ , he prayed with every fiber of his being _. This is all my fault._  He was the one responsible, for willingly, if not ignorantly, giving up his research to the The Demon and now the world would burn in Hell for what he'd done— 

Without the slightest hesitation, Ra's al Ghul stepped into the fray with his personal guards keeping pace behind him. Parsman moved forward with the group, resigned to his fate. The unease he had been feeling for months now couldn't deter the fact that he had already surrendered whatever free will he had left. He was just another accomplice, another puppet in this man's stage now. 

Ra's led the way through the battlefield, swiftly hacking down every individual who stumbled in his path with each fluid swing or thrust of his sword. It was almost poetic, Parsman thought with a sick lurch in his gut. The skillful arc of the sword sliced with deadly precision through the air, a writer and his pen, a painter and his brush, remaking the world in his image with every stroke of red dashed onto the ground. He didn't want to think about how true that metaphor would be in the near future. 

As they approached the clustered wall of soldiers, hollering and brandishing their rifles vehemently at whatever development was happening on the other side, Ra's casually cut down several more men blocking the way. It wasn't long before a path was hastily split open for them, the onlookers fearfully acknowledging the presence of their nameless, all-powerful benefactor.

On the other side, they found an encircled clearing where a close-combat brawl between the soldiers and a single man was taking place. One by one, the man pummeled every aggressor thrown at him in a violent display of force, but as one soldier was beaten down, another would rush in from the periphery to replace him. It was a futile struggle—he was outnumbered ten, twenty, _fifty_ to one—yet the man held his ground and Parsman couldn't help but pity this man for his inevitable fate. Ra's would most likely sneer at his pawns' poor performance. 

But when the professor dared to glance at his companion to gauge his reaction, he wasn't expecting to find a sharp smirk stretched across his jaw in amusement. After all this time in The Demon Head's company, Parsman had presumed the dignitary to be an indifferent, dispassionate man, world-weary and driven for only a singular purpose—immortality and genocide. This was the first time he'd ever seen anything close to life in this man's dead eyes, a dangerous glint of intrigue that chilled the professor to the bone. Stepping over the bodies piling up around the clearing, Ra's approached the enraged fighter, smoothly dodging another defeated body flung in his direction and suddenly lashing out with his blade when the man was within reach, aiming for his neck. 

Parsman quickly averted his gaze, unable to watch this man's execution in cold blood. An upheaval in the shouting, however, reeled his gaze back to the scene. 

The man was sporting a limp and a slashed arm, but he was _alive—_ and shockingly, _fighting back_. 

Parsman watched, riveted in disbelief as the two fighters launched at each other, shifting back and forth with the cautious skill of veteran warriors. The man was certainly at a disadvantage without a weapon, but he somehow managed to defend himself with only a flimsy pocket knife he must have stolen off one of the bodies lying in the dirt. The professor watched in amazement as the man fended off Ra's' barrage of deadly strikes, evading a killing blow by the skin of his teeth, and even attempting to kick, trip, or stab in retaliation. No matter how many counters he attempted, he would miss his nimble mark by a wide margin which only seemed to double his efforts. 

When the man finally released an anguished scream of frustration, he threw himself at the swordsman, all thoughts of self-preservation blown out the window. Parsman could have sworn the man had just forfeited his life when, suddenly, Ra's twisted out of the way, roughly restrained the man in a armlock and pinned him to the ground. 

"I wonder..." Ra's' distinct accent reached Parsman's ears. He strained his hearing, barely able to discern The Demon's voice as the crowd of bystanders suddenly erupted in a roar of victory. "Could it be fate that has dropped you on my doorstep once again? Now, at the exodus of my existence on this mortal plain," he said, as if entertaining a complex thought experiment. 

Oblivious to his captor's monologue, the man thrashed wildly in his grasp, spewing curses and bellowing in some semblance of suffering beyond the professor's understanding. The turmoil of anger, pain, and misery that melded across this man's face all at once was agonizing to watch.

The rest of Ra's' words was drowned out by the fervent hollers of the soldiers, but Parsman noticed when the man abruptly froze in his struggling, wide-eyed like a deer in the headlights as the silver-tongued words washed over his head. When Ra's released him, the man didn't resist as the The Demon's guards flanked him and pulled him to his feet. 

Ra's wiped his sword on a cloth presented to him by one of his servants then strolled back the way he had come with the defeated form of the young man following after him as the guards dragged him forward. This close, Parsman could make out an interesting bolt of white in the man's matted hair. 

"Escort him to the infirmary," Ra's directed over his shoulder as he trudged past the professor, now wiping his hands of the blood of several humans he had just killed moments ago with heartless disregard. "Mister Todd is a guest and he shall be treated with the respect and hospitality he deserves."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Have any of you ever heard the story of _Lazarus of Bethany?_ " 

Several nods of recognition and some perplexed stares at Doctor Parsman's question. Zatana spoke up, "You mean the Lazarus of chapter eleven in the _Gospel of John?_  According to the scriptures, Lazarus was entombed for four days after his death before being resurrected by Jesus of Nazareth. He was the only biblical figure to have been brought back from literal death."

"That is correct."

Flash spoke up next, "Okay, before we go any further with this little Sunday school session, what exactly does this have to do with the current world crisis?"

Parsman nodded at him. "As you all know, I am a sociologist. My usual, everyday work involves studying current culture and social demographics, but my true calling lies in my work as an anthropologist. I was always fascinated with the _history_ of culture, where the legends and myths of our past came from. The story of Lazarus is an exemplary analogy for this mystery I wished to solve.

"For myself and many scholars before me, Lazarus presented a paradox. There exists in the literature and historical scriptures both positive and negative connotations of the Raising of Lazarus, one of the Seven Signs that should have been viewed as a _miracle_ by _all_ spiritual followers— and yet, this was not the case. Thus, I wanted to know _why_. How could such a contrast in perspectives on this event exist while neither denied the fact that such a plausibly, _physically_ , impossible feat had truly occurred? Although I continued to dabble in the affairs of current social problems of our world, I never lost my fascination with the idea that this could lead to some ancient origin between our cultures; a dark void of reality that exists beyond our normal comprehension.

"That was why I extended my research into theology, eventually tracing its threads into Central Asian religion in the years leading up to my retirement. Tengrism is one of the oldest religions recorded in history and still practiced by a few minority groups in the modern world across Eurasia. The faith dates back to the Bronze Age, including the first ancient civilization of Mesopotamia, but according to my archaeological findings in Eastern Russia and Mongolia, I speculated that the religion could have much older roots than we intitially thought—"

Green Arrow coughed loudly, cutting off the professor mid-speech. "Sorry to interrupt, Doctor Parsley—"

"Doctor Parsman."

"— _Parson_ ," Oliver somewhat corrected himself and everyone present rolled their eyes. "We're kind of on a time crunch here. Not that your life's story isn't... _fascinating_ , but Ra's al Ghul is an international supervillain with institutional weight behind him, currently a top priority on the Justice League's most wanted list. If you don't have anything useful to say—"

Black Canary grabbed the belt loops of her boyfriend's quiver and yanked him back before he could start making muscle-headed threats. "What Green Arrow is _trying_ to explain, Professor, is that it would very helpful if you could enlighten us on Ra's al Ghul's current operations."

"Yes— yes, of course, I understand," the older man sheepishly readjusted his thick-rimmed glasses with slight embarrassment. "I've already disclosed most of my findings to Red Robin and Nightwing, but you should understand at the very least that, although I didn't know it at the time, my research had led me to accidentally uncovering the location of what Ra's al Ghul called, a _Lazarus Pit_.

"Two years ago, Ra's al Ghul approached me under the guise of a fellow scholar on Tengrism from Kyrgyzstan. I agreed to work with him and after a year of searching, we finally uncovered new evidence in the Denisova cave, which he interpreted to be a map of sorts to a Lazarus Pit on Mount Klyuchevska Sopka, an active volcano on the Kamchatka Peninsula. As the months passed, I learned more about the Pit's origins than I ever could imagine, and as well, I slowly came to realize the man's true colors until he inevitably revealed his secret of immortality to me through the strange energy of the Pit's waters. But by then, I was just another powerless pawn in his scheme.

"Ra's al Ghul didn't impart his reasons or plans to me in they're entirety. All I know is that he wanted to use what was, perhaps, the sole remaining Lazarus Pit on Earth for one of his experiments."

"And that's where Jason comes into all of this," Nightwing acknowledged. "Ra's al Ghul used him, switched bodies with him in one of these experiments."

"Yes. Ra's struck a deal with the young man in exchange for being a guinea pig for his experiments. Unfortunately, I know nothing about the details of their agreement, however, I do know that soon after, Ra's mobilized his puppet organizations across the globe and began his foray into cloning technology. By then, Ra's had no more use for me and I was free to leave— under twenty-four hour surveillance by his guards of course. I don't know what happened to the young man after that."

"All right," Superman asserted, "So we know that The League of Shadows and The Demon are the perpetrators behind the current international crisis. It makes sense, given Ra's al Ghul's past involvement in political turmoil and epidemics."

Flash added, "Ra's must have gotten ahold of the late Doctor Ivo's secret laboratories during this time. Guess that explains the sudden interest in human experimentation." Flash turned around to face the assembled group and shrugged. "Well, that's it. Mystery solved. And we didn't even need the Bat here to figure it out."

"Hold on, Flash. Something doesn't make sense," Superman intervened once more. The hero swept his gaze across the room intently. "Jason could have died from these experiments, yet somehow he switched bodies with Ra's al Ghul instead. That doesn't explain how Jason ended up being shipped out with the other clones as well. And why would Jason even _agree_ to something like this in the first place?" he asked.

There was a pause as everyone glanced at each other for answers, as clueless as anyone else in the room. Tim's eyes narrowed from behind his lenses while Arsenal shut his eyes in deep thought.

"... I think I know why he did it," Roy muttered, drawing the group's attention. Instead of continuing his train of thought, however, he glanced suspiciously up at the assassin still standing vigilantly behind the professor's shoulder. "Hey baldy," he called, "What do _you_ know about all of this?"

Ubu's sharp eyes locked onto Roy's behind the archer's domino mask while Roy glared back in an obvious accusation of, _you know something_.

Another terse beat of silence passed before Dick broke the tension. "The fact that you released Doctor Parsman into our custody already contradicts your motives, Ubu," he inquired at the silent assassin, "But, whatever your purpose is for helping us so far, your master has already lost. He's being hunted by the entire Justice League, the cloning experiments have failed, we've recovered most of the civilians kidnapped by The League of Assassins, and now we know where to find the rest— Klyuchevka Sopka. It's over." Nightwing stood up conclusively from his chair while Ubu regarded the other man with a calculating gaze. 

Before someone else could add in another comment, the three Supers suddenly jolted upright from their spots. A split second later, the floor started shaking. 

" _W-what the hell is going on?_ " Green Arrow stammered as he grabbed Dinah and the wall behind him. The entire building creaked as several paintings dislodged themselves and the lights flickered with every lurch of the room. Robin bolted upright in his seat from where he had been dozing off while the others stood their ground warily until everything trembled to a stop. 

" _Okay._  That seems kinda important. We should go check that out," Batgirl voiced out loud, the same thought on everyone's mind. 

In a blur of red, the Flash was gone, quickly followed by Superman. Everyone else rushed for the exit only to stop in their tracks when The Martian Manhunter suddenly phased in through the ceiling. 

"We have a situation," the shapeshifter quickly informed, "I just received the alert. Our colleagues were attacked in the Pacific during the investigation of the oil rigs and the active fault lines have been disrupted in the ensuing battle. Aquaman is currently attempting to contain the earthquakes with the vanguard, but the enemies appear to be... _absorbing_ their powers."

Immediately, Nightwing turned towards his fellow superheroes, shoulders set, demeanor transformed into the disciplined figure of a leader. "Zatanna, GA, Black Canary— gather as many heroes as we can spare. We need to evacuate and prepare for the potential fallout if this goes south. I assume you've sent a message to Superman and Flash, J'onn?"

"Yes. They are on their way to the East China Sea where a tsunami warning has already been alerted."

"Good. J'onn, make sure the professor and our friend from The League of Assassins don't leave your sight. Red Robin," he next addressed as the three heroes rushed off. "You and Superboy need to meet up with your team, make sure they coordinate with the League."

Tim was already tapping away on his wrist computer. "On it, Nightwing. They're already tackling a location off the coast of Santa Barbara. I should probably check in with CADMUS if your worried about how they'll respond to this," he added. Nightwing nodded, leaving that whole other mess of relations in his brother's capable hands. 

Dick had barely opened his mouth to acknowledge the rest of the Bat family plus Supergirl and The Outlaws, before Batgirl exploded over him. " _Don't tell me._ You're heading for the mysterious volcano-something-Sopka and we're _not_ going with you. After all these years of saving that gorgeous behind of yours—"

"Hold that thought—" Nightwing pressed a finger to the comm in his ear when it beeped, listening to the speaker on the other side. 

"—thinking you can treat us like we're amateurs! Like all those waffles didn't mean anything to you—"

"Batgirl."

"—we braided each other's hair, for crying out loud! Think about _that_ , mister _wing-nut_ —"

"Okay, first of all, we did _not_ braid each other's hair," Dick intervened indignantly. "I was undercover as a hair stylist while you were chatting up my target—"

"Same difference," the irked blond muttered. 

"—second of all," he continued, "I distinctly remember already acknowledging you as the Waffle Queen—"

"Oh great, not you too," Tim uttered under his breath. 

"—and third of all, _we_ need to make a detour." Dick notably looked at each of them in turn, then finally Robin, who instantly recognized the grimness in his older brother's frown that meant bad news. Without further delay, Nightwing turned about and marched out of the steel building, leading the way towards the jet. "Oracle found them," was all he said as the group tread after him, and really, that was all the explanation he needed. Unsurprisingly, when they reached the landing strip outside Yakutsk, he glanced back to find that Arsenal and Starfire were gone. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh jeez, I wish I had the brain capacity to make this chapter longer and fix Doctor Parsman's story a little more. He was always going to be a plot device to reveal some parts of the mystery, but I'm having mixed feelings on how well I conveyed that in this chapter (which is why it took me so f**king long to finish this chapter, _guh_ ). And even now, I feel conflicted on whether I should have given him more to say, but at the same time, the heroes are on a time crunch so they really don't have the luxury of settling in for storytime with grandpa Parsman... =T
> 
> ... I also hate it when explanations get too wordy =_=
> 
> The flow of conversation in this chapter felt weird to me too, which is my own fault, for bringing in more characters than my noggin can handle at once (just restressing the fact that I know nothing about their backgrounds or personalities, but I have no will power when it comes to loving the idea of them *sobs* T_T).
> 
> If anything still seems confusing from this chapter, just let me know in the comments, please.
> 
> As for the chapter notes, the title loosely references the short story, _Lazarus_ by Leonid Andreyev.
> 
> Cheers


	18. Intermission

   

 

 

_“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”_

 

Two years is the longest time that I’ve ever taken to complete a personal project and I'm certainly feeling a little overwhelmed by the sheer size and depth it has gained ever since. Despite that, there is one thing I know for sure about myself — I hate leaving loose ends untied.

So, fear not Guest, who messaged me to check if all’s right in the world (and all you other fans stalking in the shadows, but too afraid to ask. That’s right, _I see you_ ). Just as the chapter title reads, this is more of a, “Hey! Thanks for watching! We’ll be back right after the break!” and definitely not a, “Fuck. How do I say ‘ hiatus‘ without trapping myself in a bubble of shame?” There is an end to this journey and we will get there eventually, but for now I’d like to say a heartfelt thank you to everyone who’s given me feedback and enjoyed the ride with me along the way so far.

Aside from that, the last several months have been insanely busy and brought a lot of changes to my personal and professional life. Even now I’m still settling into these changes and anticipating more in the near future, but that doesn’t mean I’ve totally forgotten about this story at all. If anything, this story has been persistently hanging on back of my mind like a sticky note, only instead of a brief written notation there’s a picture with Bruce’s judgemental glare on it staring right back at me.

So, I hope this brief A/N helps to explain my unexpected absence, but also gives some peace of mind while waiting to find out what happens next to everyone’s favorite wayward son. I have scattered drafts of ideas sporadically written and waiting to be polished and stitched together into something more final product-worthy, but that will obviously take some time to sort through.

Until then, I present to you a little intermission one-shot that didn’t quite fit anywhere into the story, but was spontaneously written because apparently I needed a muse, and that muse happened to be everyone’s favorite British Butler.

 

PS: Snail-fist-bumps to anyone who knows the amazing book and author I've quoted above (of course, my eyes are conveniently looking the other way should anyone happen to google it and surprisingly find the book at the top of their search page).

 

Cheers!

 

 

* * *

 

 

The wind whistled sharply as Alfred pulled the large, mahogany door closed behind him.

With the thick walls of Wayne manor between him and the stormy elements outside, the cavernous hallways immediately fell into muted silence. Muted, because the sounds of life, its joys and sorrows, once filled the same halls and nothing could persuade him otherwise that the lively voices of those he cared for would unfortunately never be heard again. Even the voices no longer amongst the living. Alfred could close his tired eyes and hear echoes of their meaningless chatter from years long past.

_What do you think? Paisley or houndstooth?_

_You would think I would have learned by now how exceptional you are at what you do. Check._

_There goes another one. Alfred, what am I to do with this boy?_

_It was my fault._

_So… Are you supposed to be some kind of ninja Butler? I guess that’s cool. I mean, I’m cool with that. You’re cool. Nothing cooler than being a butler. And a ninja. Coolbeans._

The corners of his mouth were tempted to pull upwards as he let the fond memories replay through his head like a movie reel. He peeled off his overcoat and hung up his outerwear in the closet. Curious, he thought. As a young man, he never would have imagined himself as the nostalgic type in old age. Alfred had always been pragmatic, the one that volunteered himself to stay sober while others freely drowned their troubles in alcohol. At least, that’s what his old comrades from the British Armed Forces used to say about him. He wasn’t one to dwell on the past.

Alfred blamed the hazards of his chosen occupation if he found himself reminiscing in particular about the young charges he had fostered throughout the years. Little peculiarities, such as Young Master Bruce’s habit of hiding his brussel sprouts for later disposal in a complexly devised, secret compartment he’d built into the dining room floor; Master Damian’s similar habit of sneaking his brussel sprouts away, but instead for feeding the animals nestled in his closet; Master Dick and his insistence for putting cereal in all his meals, his scrambled eggs, his sandwiches, and almost successfully sneaking it into the turkey stuffing; Miss Cassandra and her mischievous antics (Miss Brown’s influence, no doubt) in painting everyone’s nails should they decide to take a nap in the west wing; and Master Timothy and his persistence in stealing sips from Bruce’s coffee when he was unanimously banned from caffeinated beverages until after puberty.

When you have been an integral role in the upbringing of children, watched them grow into their own skins and make their own mark in life, it came as no surprise to Alfred that Master Jason had been the closest to, if not the only one who had wanted it the most, that normality of growing up. As Alfred made his way to the pantry with his groceries in tow, he recalled Master Jason’s early habit of stealing canned food from the kitchen and storing them in a backpack beneath his bed — a habit born out of practice that the boy had soon grown out of with proper care and attention. Alfred had never let the implications of the boy’s circumstances overshadow the real Jason beneath the layers of practiced distrust.

The real Jason had loved to cook.

The real Jason had loved to read.

The real Jason had made it his mission to make Bruce smile at least four times a day (once in public and three times while wearing the cowl).

The real Jason had been fearless and insecure, reckless, but loyal.

The real Jason had given them a reason to be normal too (after years filled with nothing but _'The Mission'_ ).

The Red Hood who appeared in Gotham long after Ethiopia, the man who claimed to be everything that came with being _‘Jason Todd’_ , was not the real Jason as Alfred remembered him. The Red Hood was just another mask of distrust as much as the façade he wore beneath it.

Through The Batman’s lenses in the safety of the Batcave, Alfred had searched the face of the man beneath the Demon’s mask, salient features twisted into raw disgust and animosity through the grainy footage with the end of his rifle pointed firmly ahead. Even as Alfred had jumped to his feet in shock at the sudden explosion of a gunshot, the video erraticly spinning out of focus as Bruce tumbled into freefall — even as dread creeped into his heart at the possibility of Bruce’s death — he couldn’t help but think that Ra’s al Ghul was simply the intricate design of another mask.

Shelves restocked and a package of biscuits in hand, the butler stepped back into the kitchen, foregoing the switch that would have turned on the overhead lights. He quietly filled a kettle under the tap and set it to boil on the stove while the flickering shadows of the windstorm beyond the windows cast broken shapes across the floor and countertops. The urgent whistle of steam echoed through the empty mansion moments later and soon the elderly attendant was settled before the fireplace, waiting patiently for his tea to steep in the pot by his side. Above the mantle piece, Martha and Thomas looked down with gentle eyes on the man who raised their son and the children that came after whom they would never have a chance to meet.

But it was easy to imagine. Jason himself had pondered the possibility in a rare moment of honesty.

_Do you think they would have liked me?_ The boy had asked. He had been sitting cross-legged, chin propped in one hand on the very same armchair Alfred was currently lounging in.

At the time, Alfred had assured him that they would have been absolutely charmed by him. But the same could have been said for any grandchild of the Waynes and thinking back, perhaps he should have said differently.

_Martha would have spoiled you with your favorite snacks every day. She would have attended every one of your football matches and cry foul louder than the coach should anyone dare lay a finger on you._

_Thomas would have loved to teach you the piano. He would have made every excuse to disturb your studies to play catch outside or take you to the movies._

There were many things he could have said. Maybe then Jason would have learned to be more honest about his feelings instead of hiding his uncertainties and misgivings behind his many masks of confidence. Alfred had never chastised himself more than when he realized how hesitant he had been to overstep a boundary that in reality, was a boundary of his own making. Jason’s masks were nothing more than a test of faith. There had always been a boy waiting for someone willing enough to meet him on the other side.

Alfred had caught a glimpse of that boy a few short days ago. And no matter who returned from the current mission against the latest world-wide threat, he knew he would no longer hesitate. Life was too short to spend on speculation over nonexistent pies in the sky. He would keep his eyes forward on the people who mattered most, tangible and within his reach.

When Alfred finally slipped out of his thoughts, the rumbles of the storm outside had quieted to the soft patter of raindrops on the window panes. He poured his tea and took a sip only to realize that in his momentary reprieve, he had forgotten to remove the bag sooner. The taste in his mouth lingered, lukewarm and bitter.

 

 

 

 


End file.
